


Little Lantern Boy

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Cannibalism, Ghost!Will, M/M, kink meme prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will finds out Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, and Hannibal is forced to take matters into his own hands. Fortunately for them, Will is much harder to kill than either originally thought. Ghost!Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life

Will knows.

Hannibal could tell almost the moment he walked into the room. He fairly screams his knowledge—to Hannibal, at least. His posture, usually at least somewhat relaxed around Hannibal, is stiff, and he reeks of defensiveness, panic, and desperation. He’s prey who can’t decide between fight and flight—prey that is hanging on to that last thread of hope, that his wolf really is the sheep he was lead to believe he was.

It’s almost sad, really. If ever there were a time his heart could go out to someone, now would be it. It doesn't. He’s disappointed at the turn of events, and he grieves over his soon-to-be lost friend, but he can’t empathize with Will. That’s not his gift to use.

“Did you stop by my office for a reason, Will?”

Will’s eyes, which had been looking everywhere except him, snap to where Hannibal stands, leaning casually against the desk that houses his scalpel. The casual stance is a ploy they’re both aware of. Better there be some semblance of normality, to ease Will’s way when they finally discuss the reality in front of them.

“I don’t mean to say I don’t enjoy your presence, but I doubt you came here simply so that we could stand in the same room together.”

“I—you, what’s been—” Will cuts himself off several times, trying to find words for a question he doesn't want to voice. He tugs roughly at his hair for a second, distressed. “I had a dream.”

It’s a start.

“I had a dream, one that’s been reoccurring for a while now, actually. Except usually it stops, I can never make sense of it because I’m always missing something.”

“And you have now figured out what you were missing?” He prompts, after Will trails off for several seconds. If it’s finally time for this conversation, he wants to know what drew Will over the edge, what finally made him aware of the monster lurking over his shoulder. Will’s attention snaps back to the present, and he visibly jerk back. Whether from the situation, or Hannibal himself, he can’t tell.

“Yeah, yeah I figured it out this time. It started normally, I've told you about the dream before; the one where Abigail and I are sitting at a table of the dead girl you—the copycat killed.” He stumbled, taking a second to catch Hannibal’s eyes before looking away again. “Usually, we just sit there. We just sit and look at each other over a dead corpse, making dazed conversation. 

“This time, the copycat walks up, a hunting knife in hand as he takes a seat beside us. And he thanks us for waiting for him to start eating, and he cuts the corpse open and serves each of us an organ to eat.” Will is visibly disturbed, his entire face washing of color. Hannibal can’t help but lean forward slightly, interested in the picture painted before him.

“And do you eat the meal he has prepared?”

Will looks at him, revolted. Hannibal can see it in his eyes, see the way his suspicions are cemented into certainty. But he won’t act on it, not quite yet.

“Yes. Yes, we all take our plates and eat the meal. Abigail even asks if she can help catch the next one.”

Hannibal waits. It’s coming, the apex of this meeting. Will will finally have his answers, and Hannibal’s secret will come out.

“Are you the copycat, Dr. Lecter?” It’s hardly even a question, the way Will says it. Not quite a statement, not quite an accusation, just a jumble of meaningless words that he has to push together. The fact that he still calls Hannibal by his professional title says so many things about him.

“I am.” There’s no use denying, not in front of Will.

“And the Chesapeake Ripper?” Will fairly vomits the question, for how articulate it sounds. Hannibal can forgive him for that, given how uncomfortable Will must feel about this entire situation. Finding out your friend has been killing people can’t be pleasant.

Still, he’s remarkably proud that he’d figured out more than just the copycat murders. It would be a shame to only have two of his works gain recognition by such a brilliant mind.

“I am him as well, yes.”

Will looks broken—or, well, more broken than he’s seen him before. He looks desperate, all at once, looking directly into Hannibal’s eyes in a way that he hasn't before. He strides forward, purposeful. Frenzied.

One last burst of life before his mongoose lies still.

“You’re lying! Tell me you’re lying! Explain away all the evidence! Tell me how you couldn't have murdered all those people, that my mind is playing tricks on me again! Tell me I’m crazy, tell me that you've never killed anyone in cold blood like that, tell me I've finally lost my mind! Tell me I can trust you when I can’t trust my mind! TELL ME!” He’s too close now, grabbing onto the lapels of Hannibal’s suit. “Don’t make me have to catch you.” His voice breaks and tears collect at the sides of his eyes. Will has never been more beautiful than right now, totally broken before him.

If he’d given Hannibal just a little bit more time—just enough to reveal to him the potential he showed with that beautiful imagination of his—Will could have been breathtaking. This broken image will have to do.

It’s still a lovely gift. The least Hannibal can do to thank him is honor his last wishes.

“I won’t, Will. I would never make you chase after me, I promise.” He brings Will close to him, smoothing over his hair in a calming gesture. Will allows it, probably too weak to do any real fighting. It would seem he’s the final crack that shatters Will’s unstable hold on the world.

Good. Nobody but he is worthy of controlling such a beautiful mind.

He shushes Will when he starts crying, not comprehending his reality. He is crying into the shoulder of killer. Hannibal runs his hand through the floppy mess of curls one more time, his other hand holding Will tightly to him. Then, he stabs. The scalpel drives into Will without warning. It’s controlled, not nearly as painful as it could be. Will struggles for several moments as he bleeds out, until finally his strength stutters. He loses the ability to stay upright. Hannibal gently moves him to the floor, half cradling his body so that he can see the last breath leave his lungs, and feel the last beatings of his heart.

It is messy. He could have suffocated Will, or made him fall unconscious, so that he could arrange something more extravagant—something more worthy of Will. It seems fitting that it should happen in this office, though. The very office that Will poured his secrets into, he now has Hannibal’s secrets drained back. It is right, that this should be the place that he feel the blood drain from Will’s body, that the last thing Will’s conscious mind will be able to pick up on is a familiar room with a familiar face.

It is inelegant, but it is worth it for Will.


	2. After Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wakes up suitably disoriented, and gets a feel for being dead on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have no idea how one goes about doing what Hannibal did. So be warned, people who no about removing organs, this may not be incredibly accurate!

_Hannibal lays Will on an autopsy table. Will is cool to the touch, from being in a refrigerated room for several hours. His whole body has been cleaned, but the blue of his lips and the pallor of his skin give away that he isn't merely sleeping._

_Hannibal has an array of tools lying next to the table. The first he picks up is a scalpel, different than the one he used to kill the man lying on his table, but no one else would be able to tell the difference._

_He cuts into Will’s chest, a steady incision that allows him to peel the skin back, so he may get at what is underneath. Next is the saw. The vibrations run steady along his arm as he cuts open the sternum, allowing him to get at the heart that lies inside Will’s body. He takes the scalpel in hand again, cutting out the precious organ that no longer beats in Will’s chest._

_It’s not difficult, he’s done this many times. He knows, already, that Will’s heart will make an excellent meal to eat. It’s just as he decided, long before Will had ever thought to confront him. He will take this one organ, because it belongs to him._

Will wakes with a gasp. His whole body propels forward, his hands search frantically to find a heartbeat in his chest. He can’t feel one, there’s no reassuring thump against his hand, he can’t breathe, his lungs are closing in he’s going to—he’s going to… he’s not doing anything.

It takes a second, for Will to realize that he isn't having a panic attack, he isn't covered in sweat. He almost feels normal. Which is abnormal, for him. He rests his head against his hands for a moment, trying to gather up all the stray thoughts running around his head. It’s difficult, everything is flying around him a mile a minute; it feels like he’s been asleep for months, and now that he’s finally awake he's even more tired and disoriented than he was at the start.

When he finally raises his head, Will has to pause for just a second longer, his mind going temporarily blank as he processes what lies before his eyes. He can see himself, lying on a steel table, eyes closed as if he were resting peacefully. Is he having an out of body experience? He'd almost had one of those, once. It was during a case, and it hadn't felt dissimilar to this.

His eyes close, he can relax. Or, relax to the point where he won’t have a panic attack—can he have one of those if he’s not in his own physical body? He didn't have one from the nightmare, so probably not--being outside his own body isn't exactly comforting.

It is odd, though. Why is he on a steel table? What caused him to jump out of his own mind? He’d probably finally lost it. Used one too many wishes, asked one too many times to be anywhere except where he was, and in an ironic twist of fate, he’s now nowhere near himself.

Well fate can go fuck herself, because being outside his own body feels terrible. It’s a different type of terrible, at least. Where he was once filled to the brim with life and facts and emotions, he now feels empty. Totally free of all the things that weighed him down. It’s worse, somehow.

Something doesn't feel right about this whole situation. Ha. Besides the fact that he can see himself lying on a table, that is. Why isn't anyone else around? It doesn't look like he’s in a hospital, and this clearly wasn't where he’d last left himself. Unless he had lost time, and this was exactly the place he’d left himself.

Weirder things had happened. Like waking up next to his own body, for instance. He tries to remember what happened, tries to garner back the last thing he remembers.

The memories flood back. Going to confront Hannibal after he’d had that dream, after he’d taken the entire day to process and think over his realization. How he’d broken down when Hannibal told him that he was, in fact, the Copycat and the Chesapeake Ripper. He’s probably a lot more than just those, too.

But Hannibal had stabbed him. He’d died, in that room, looking at Hannibal’s face. And he wasn't dead now.

Will scrambles to his feet, reaching out to grab at the table for stability, only to fall through it. This isn't right, this isn't how things were supposed to go, it doesn't even make any sense because the body in front of him—the body in front of him isn't breathing.

He steadies himself, as best he can. Crawling to his feet without reaching out this time. It’s true, his own body isn't breathing. He looks cold. He looks dead. Except he’s not, because he’s standing right there.

There are two of him, and only one is still breathing. Actually, neither of them were still breathing, he’d been right when he first woke up. He can’t breathe.

“This isn't happening, this is not happening.” And maybe he sounds a bit hysterical, but he’s standing in front of his own body, so he's allowed to be. He takes a step back, sinking to his knees when his weightless body suddenly feels to heavy to hold. It’s a small relief to hear his own voice, though. The quiet in the room was destroying him, and he's apparently just learned that dead people don’t need air in order to speak. That's interesting; even after death he can learn something new everyday.

He needs to get out of here, needs to go someplace where his dead body isn't staring lifelessly back at him.

He hesitates, just for a second, when he looks back at his body. He has no idea where he is, no idea what he’ll walk into when he leaves this room. Not that it will really matter. There’s only so much people can do to you once you’re dead, really.

He steels himself as he moves to the door, and momentarily panics when his hand reaches through the its solid surface from where he’d meant to push the lever that was attached to it. His not being able to touch anything is going to take a while to get used to.

Slowly, he takes a step through the door. Moving through it isn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be; it doesn't send a chill down his spine, he can't feel the crushing weight of the door around his body, there's nothing really there for him to feel. It's like walking through an archway, except he couldn't see what was on the other side until he crossed over. Huh. It was kind of like death, in that way, too. Apparently his morbid sense of humor was sticking around after death. Now all he needed was a dead body to empathize over, and it’d be like he’d never even died.

He’s somewhat surprised when the outside room that greets him looks totally ordinary, like any other room in an average house. Well, any other kitchen, he amends to himself. It’s not Hannibal’s kitchen—he’d seen that one before, and this wasn't anything like it—but it probably belongs to him. Hell, this is probably the kitchen to some cabin in the woods he owns. Being an outdoorsman didn't really seem like his style, but being a cannibalistic murderer hadn't seemed like his style either.

It’s hard to know, with some people.

Will doesn't particularly want to explore this house. It doesn't hold any special meaning to him, it was just where his body happened to be when he finally ‘woke up’. He wants – he wants to be home, really. He wants to sit down and talk to his dogs and get a good night’s sleep.

Dead and still tired, that’s disappointing.

For a moment, he wonders if his dogs would be able to tell he was there. Dogs were supposed to recognize the supernatural, weren't they? Will is pretty sure being a corporeal ghost type thing counts as supernatural.

He wishes, just for a moment, that he could be there, with them. Wishes with everything that’s left of himself, that he could go see his dogs, and then—

—and then he’s standing in a field, surrounded by his dogs.

It takes a second, for the rapid change of scenery to register. He’s not in his backyard, he already knows that, but his dogs are here. They don’t look happy, they look like they’re all helping each other grieve, lying in the grass the way they are.

At first Will doesn't think they notice him, but one after the other, all their heads pup up, and their tails begin to twitch. Winston is the first one to stand up and bound over to him. He’s sniffing, sniffing the air three inches away from where Will raises his hand, before he wags his tail harder and barks. The pack takes after him, and soon Will is surrounded by his dogs, who are all welcoming him home just like he’d wanted.

Except for not really, because the barks are mixed with growls, and several of them are baring their teeth at him, like he’s an unwelcome stranger. It's with a sick feeling in his stomach--apparently sick feelings were alright to have when you're dead--that he realizes his welcome isn't really all that welcoming. His dogs aren't greeting him like he'd hoped, they're protecting themselves from the strange creature they can probably sense, but can’t see. The only living souls he wanted to recognize him, and they think he’s out to hurt them.

“It’s alright, guys, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, bending down so he’s eye level with them, even though they probably can’t see him. It’s an automatic response to his dogs being riled up, really. “It’s just me, I’m not going to hurt you, you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

They all quiet down, and Will allows himself a brief second of victory before a voice calls out behind him. That was probably the presence they were responding to.

“Winston, Wesley, Walker, Winnie, Wasca, Woody!” Their names are shot off, and the dogs stiffen, whine, and then lay down.

Will is hardly paying attention, though, because he recognizes that voice. He turns, staring directly at an authoritative looking Hannibal in shock.

“You did not adopt my dogs.”

Hannibal doesn't hear him, obviously—he expected as much. Nobody hears ghosts, or it would be much more common to hear about it—but he continues talking anyways.

“You killed me! You’re the reason they needed to be adopted in the first place! Why would you let six dogs live with you? You never seemed to be particularly fond of them.”

It’s a dumb question. He took them in because they needed a home, and as he was a close friend of Will’s. People inevitably thought that his grieving led to the act of kindness. And maybe it did, a little bit, but Will can guess that if it weren't for appearances, Hannibal wouldn't have bothered.

“You know not to bark when you’re out here, it upsets the neighbors.” Hannibal chastises, and the dogs all sink their heads in submission.

It finally occurs to Will that he has no idea how much time has passed. How long did it take for Hannibal to offer his home to his dogs? How long did it take before they listened to him, and started trusting him? He could be witnessing life months after he’d died. Or maybe his dogs weren't as fond of him as he’d thought, and it's only been several hours after his death.

“You wouldn't happen to want to randomly call out the date, would you?” He asks, mildly hopeful that Hannibal might suddenly feel the urge to shout to the heavens the month, day, and year.

He doesn't. Will knows that nothing he says will get through to him, but it makes him feel better when he can listen to his own voice. Ah, he might be leaning a bit more towards the narcissistic side than he had originally thought, when he was alive.

Well, if Hannibal is allowed to be a psychopathic cannibalistic murderer, he’s entitled to a little narcissism every once in a while.

Hannibal sighs, and it takes Will a moment to remember that his dogs are on the receiving end of Hannibal’s look, and that the look isn't actually pointed at him. He’s seen that face directed at him a couple of times, though, so it’s not a stretch to think that Hannibal has suddenly become able to see him, and that the look is his way of showing how mildly unimpressed he is with Will's amazing feat of not really dying.

“Come on, then. You’d all best come inside before it starts raining out, and I have to deal with wet dogs.” The dogs all stay put, and Hannibal makes what is perhaps the purest expression of disgruntlement Will has ever seen. “Yes, yes, I know. Come on boys! Back to the house! Those are good dogs!” Hannibal’s voice is so enthusiastically fake, Will can’t help but laugh at his expense. Maybe it hasn't been so long after all, if Hannibal hasn't gotten a hand on training the dogs to come when called without sounding like a six year old.

It garners the correct response from the dogs, though, and they all rush towards Hannibal in excitement. His look of pure annoyance is golden, and Will can't help but smile. He has absolutely no idea how Hannibal has been able to put up with them for however long it's been.

“You should try whistling, Dr. Lecter. You seem like the type.” The fact Hannibal can’t hear him is beyond important at this point. He’s feeling righteously bitter, and there may still be a little bit of crazy hanging around from when he was alive. Making fun of a man who can't hear him is hardly a cause for concern when taking in the fact that he’s dead, and there is literally nothing anyone can do to ‘fix’ him. He can do what he wants.

Besides, what's the point of no one being able to see or hear him if he can't torment his murderer until it stops making him happy? It's not like anyone's expecting him anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And enter Ghost!Will. I swear, you kill a guy and he suddenly feels much more confident on getting revenge. They'll actually interact soon, I just needed Will to have at least a second to himself so that he can figure out what's happening. Not that he really has, but shhhhh.
> 
> Someone on tumblr mentioned that Will's dogs might all have W names, and I liked the idea enough to implement it. Plus I wanted Hannibal to have to shout them all.


	3. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will go for a nice, long road trip and really enjoy the scenery. Yeah, right.

Will has formed a routine. Most of it, sadly, comprises of following Hannibal around while he does his day-to-day activities. For a cannibal, he’s surprisingly lenient with the amount of killing he does—which is good, but like he mentioned before, more than a little unexpected.

The knowledge that Hannibal is a serial killer doesn't make his normal life seem out of the ordinary, or out of place; he hasn't suddenly become aware of some kind of evil smirk that shows on his face when people aren't looking. It’s disconcerting, really.

He’s never tried to connect, to empathize, with Hannibal before. Now, when he has all the time in the world to do so, he’s hitting something of a roadblock. The living world spit him out on the other side and he simply doesn't feel complete anymore. It’s odd, and unpleasant, and absolutely unbearable to deal with considering how often he’d wished his ‘gift’ would disappear when he was alive.

Death puts things into perspective like that. It shows just how good, how lively, life was, and then it takes it away. And it’s depressing, and it hurts, and he’s had way too much time to mull over all of this. Almost two weeks, actually.

Hannibal hasn't stopped helping Jack, now that he’s gone. That was mildly surprising when he first found out, considering how little Hannibal and Jack had actually interacted case-wise while he was still breathing. Apparently death has brought them closer together. Well, kind of. Even with the barrier he feels between worlds, it’s easy to see that Hannibal is still manipulating Jack, still making sure Jack runs circles around the bone he’s been trying so desperately to find.

Hannibal also makes terrible cannibal puns whenever he can fit them in. The sheer amount of them had sort of numbed Will to the meaning behind them, and they’re just kind of ridiculous, now. Hannibal seemed to think so too, because he’d upped his game recently, going from impressively obscure to almost flat out telling someone he was eating their neighbor.

All in all, Will can say his time spent dead on Earth has been the most boring thing he’s ever experienced.

He can’t even do anything! Oh, he’s shouted insults left and right at Hannibal. He’s gone to see Alana, to make sure she’s doing okay. Then he’d gone to Abigail—though why he chose to do that was a bit of a mystery, because they really hadn't known each other that well, despite how responsible he’d felt for her. She hadn't really reciprocated the feeling, but that may have been his fault, too—and she’d seemed sad he was gone, but not too broken up considering what her life consisted of. The whole ‘killing her father’ thing had always sort of kept him at a distance when trying to bond with her.

He’d considered going to see Jack before, but Hannibal visits him semi-regularly, and frankly, the thought of spying on his former boss makes him feel somewhat uncomfortable.

So now here he is. Stuck on Earth, unable to do anything besides rile up his dogs whenever he gets too close to them, and even they are going to tire of him eventually. He’s found that thinking ahead doesn't do anything to raise his spirits, so he’s stopped doing that. Mostly.

Which leaves him here, sitting cross-legged on Hannibal’s dining room table, as he does that Zen meditation stuff that he’d seen on the TV when he was alive. It’s supposed to help with concentration, or something like that. Channeling his inner spirit so that he might be able to actually move something, or get someone to listen to him.

It hasn't worked so far, but he’s kind of out of options. And at least its lack of effectiveness means that no one can see him acting like an imbecile while he does that weird ‘ohmmmm’ thing.

Hannibal is eating in front of him. His eyes are closed, but he can hear it happening. He’s almost entirely certain that Hannibal ate his heart before he woke up as a dead person.

He’d gone back to see his body—just once, looking at his dead self was by no means a pleasant experience—and the long scar in his chest had been a hint. Frankly, he was a little surprised he hadn't noticed it when he’d first woken up. When he’d looked at his ethereal body, he wasn't sporting any scars, though, so that was a plus. 

The whole idea is kind of sickening, when he thinks about it. There’s nothing he can do about it now, so he’s decided to take the heart-eating thing as a compliment and leave it at that. Hannibal killed and butchered most of his former victims because he saw them as pigs; he’d killed Will because he had no other choice, and butchered him to honor his death. Or, that’s what he thinks, anyways. The inability to connect makes him less sure about his insights to other people’s minds.

Maybe if he can figure out what the hell to do, he’ll seek out some real revenge. Both for the killing, and the cannibalism of his body—which despite being a sort-of compliment, is still something that isn't cohesive for a great friendship.

When Hannibal finishes his supper—which Will notices immediately, so he probably hasn't done the Zen thing correctly—he takes his keys and goes out the door. That takes him by surprise. His schedule is based off Hannibal’s, and Hannibal doesn't usually go anywhere this late at night.

Will blinks, and he’s out in the passenger seat of the car, waiting for Hannibal to get in. If there’s any upside to death at all, it’s that he doesn't have to walk anywhere. It’s almost uncomfortably reminiscent of when he’d lost time as a living person, but he’s almost gotten used to it now.

“Where are we going today, Doctor?” This is standard, part of the routine that’s now been broken. Talking to Hannibal, whether he can hear him or not, helps keep him calm. Another thing that was passed on from his time alive, that really, really shouldn't have been.

They ride in the car for several hours. Will never bothered to check the time when they left—time sort of melds together when you’re dead and can’t sleep, and checking the clock every twenty minutes only serves to slow time down more—but he can safely assume that Hannibal is going to take the rest of the night to do whatever he’s planning.

He has an uncomfortably suspicious feeling the he knows what’s going to happen, and that it won’t be something he’s going to want to stick around to see. He’s still retaining some hope that it’s not what he expects it to be, but he can’t think of anything else Hannibal would be doing this late at night.

He does not want to see Hannibal kill someone. He doesn't; he already knows that he’s a killer, he doesn't need to see it again. Except he kind of does, because he’s followed him around for several weeks—he really needs some kind of new undead-but-still-technically-dead hobby—and it’s becoming alarmingly easy to forget that he’s staying with a serial killer. It’s almost like old times, except there’s a lot more stalking on his end, now.

So he’ll stay with him. For now. 

Maybe just up to the point where he can figure out why he’s still hanging around. Or, failing that, until Hannibal finally gives in and gives his dogs to someone else. Unfortunately, this option is looking less and less likely, as he’s actually quite good with them. Bastard.

They’re somewhere in the middle of West Virginia by the time he stops. Hannibal parks in a parking lot, under the cover of some trees. He’s not really sure if this is some crucial point in this endeavor or if it’s just a coincidence, but the fact that they've stopped has him paranoid about everything.

Every little sound is cataloged. His spatial perception is far superior to what it had been when he was alive, so it’s not difficult to notice the squirrels and birds and insects that are moving around outside. It is somewhat disorientating, however, and the paranoia isn't doing anything to ease his way.

It’s another twenty minutes of jumpy—on his part, Hannibal seems relaxed enough—silence before Hannibal gets out of the car. He follows him, bypassing the useless door handle that he couldn't move to head straight through the door.

They both walk towards the edge of the parking lot, which the car is conveniently parked close to, and move onto the grass that divides the parking lot from the sidewalk. He’s not totally sure what Hannibal was waiting for, that he didn't do this right away, but apparently his impeccable sense of timing has him exactly where he needs to be at exactly the right time.

There’s a man—he’s thin-ish, holding a suitcase and wearing what looked to be shabby work clothes, though that could just be the horrible lighting playing up. Either way, this is probably who Hannibal is waiting for.

For all the suspense, it’s hardly a drawn out ordeal. The man walks by, and suddenly Hannibal is behind him, arm around his neck in a well-practiced fashion as the guy struggles. He’s dragged back into the safety of the overhead streetlights, and soon enough he’s lying limp in Hannibal’s grasp.

Hannibal drags him back to the car and into the trunk in almost no time flat—counting the time it takes him to gag the man with cloth and duct tape, as well as trap his feet and hands together. It’s all very efficient and clinical, and it makes Will dread what’s coming next.

They’re both back in the car, roughly an hour’s way out from where they’d picked up the guy, when Will notices that he’d woken up. Hannibal can apparently tell too, but the guy is tied up and they’re the only ones on the road, so it doesn't seem like he’s too concerned about it.

It’s almost a half an hour after that when they finally slow down and turn off the main road, into a more secluded area. There’s a house—it’s old but doesn't look like it’s been abandoned. A different one than the place his body is being kept in.

The man is pulled from the trunk roughly, and he’s over Hannibal’s shoulder, hardly able to do anything at all except squirm, and inside the house before he ever had a chance to do anything productive. Like escaping, for instance.

The man is dead. Will can see that knowledge swimming across the man’s face. He’s looking up—almost exactly at Will, like he’s begging him to do something—and his screams are muffled by the gag.

“This will be unpleasant for you, Mr. Turner. I suggest you try to keep as still and quiet as you can, as it may help move the process along more efficiently than if you make yourself a nuisance.”

Both Will and the man are startled into stillness at Hannibal’s words. Will had thought he couldn't really empathize anymore, but he can do it here. It’s happening before him, the stretch of imagination isn't hard. He doesn't even have to conjure up false emotion, he knows the man’s fear, his need to escape and his ultimate inability to do so. He is trapped, and he’s going to die, and there is absolutely nothing that can be done to save himself. So why not just listen to his murderer and give in?

The man does. He falls limp in his position against Hannibal’s shoulder, and Will follows behind them with a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

He should wait outside. Hannibal will go into a room, he’ll close the door and do some horrible, unimaginable thing, and Will will never have to know what it is that he does.

The thought stills him for a moment longer. He could do that—he could simply run away and pretend all of this is some bad nightmare. It wouldn't be difficult to stay away for a couple minutes, or a couple hours, or however long this takes. He stays out of the office when Hannibal is dealing with patients, this would practically be the same thing.

But it feels wrong. It feels like he’s deserting the man, as if he’s leaving him alone for a fate he can do nothing about. That’s not something he can have weigh on his conscience for the rest of eternity.

So he follows down the hall, passed the close door, and into the room.

Hannibal has the man lying belly-up on a wide, sturdy looking wooden table, and he’s in the middle of handcuffing the man’s wrists and feet to the table legs when Will walks over. The man has tears running down his face, which Hannibal seems to be politely ignoring. Will knows what will come next. It’s the order that’s a mystery. The Ripper removed organs, but the order of torture and removal was something Will had never figured out.

It’s a question Will isn't terribly keen on finding the answer to.

Finally, just as it looks like Hannibal is ready to begin whatever ideas he has for this man, he pauses to complete the last step of his preparation. He carefully removes the gag in the man’s mouth, avoiding the man’s desperately gnashing teeth.

“I’m removing the gag so that you may scream as you like. Please feel free to be as loud or quiet as you wish.”

The man whimpers upon the immediate removal of the gag, but holds his tongue.

Hannibal stops to stare at him for a moment before leaving the room. Only then does the man start struggling in earnest. It’s a useless effort; the handcuffs are much stronger than he is, and the table doesn't look like it will give any time soon.

Will stays with the man, but he can hear Hannibal moving around in another room. He’s collecting something, he’s pretty sure. This must have been a plan laid out far in advance, because Will’s never seen this place, and he’d never left Hannibal alone for more than an hour or two. Hardly enough time for all this to come together.

When Hannibal comes back, he’s wearing gloves and carrying what looks to be a toolbox. The man is looking at it warily, for a moment, until Hannibal puts it on a chair next to the table and opens it up.

“W-what are you going t-t-to do to me?” He’s mostly composed, only stuttering a little bit when Hannibal looks at him.

“I’m going to kill you, Mr. Turner, and then I will take your organs and use them to a potential they can’t reach while inside of you.”

The man looks like he might be sick for a moment, and Will’s feeling much the same way. Not from Hannibal’s words, so much as the supplies he can see in the toolbox Hannibal opened. From inside, Hannibal takes out a hammer and a long, smooth nail. The box holds, many, many more nails just like it.

“This is going to hurt,” Hannibal warns, before pressing the nail against the man’s shoulder. He hits it twice before removing his fingers, and doing one more hard hit that sends the nail deep into the man’s shoulder. The man screams.

By the time Hannibal is done, Will is sitting in a corner trying to block out the image of the man thoroughly nailed down to a table. The man stopped screaming after the first eight or so nails, and he’s been gurgling and mumbling almost the entire time afterwards. It’s the stop of the never-ending hammer that makes Will lift his head.

He walks over to them cautiously, trying desperately not to look at the man as he tries to twitch and is unable to without feeling the nails stay steadfast in his body.

“Are you here,” the man stops in the middle of his question in order to giggle deliriously, and then starts over again, “Are you here to take me away?”

Will looks at the man’s face for a second. He’s looking directly at Will, his eyes mostly following his movements, when they don’t glaze over.

Hannibal stops what he’s doing, as well, to look at the man.

“Are you talking to me?” Will finally asks, after the man falls into another fit of gurgling giggles.

“Well, well, well yeah. You weren't here bef—bef, at the start. Are you a demon? Are you going to take me to Hell?”

The man’s question takes Will off guard for a moment, and he sneaks a look at Hannibal, who’s resumed taking out the surgical supplies that were laid at the bottom of the toolbox. He probably thought the man was hallucinating from the pain.

Will frowns and shakes his head at the man. Why a demon? As far as he could tell, he looks just like he did when he was alive. That’s hardly a demon’s visage.

“Oh.” The man looks relieved for a second, apparently accepting that a demon wouldn't lie to him. “What’s your name, Mr. Not Demon?”

“Will Graham. What’s yours?” He knows his last name is Turner, but it seems like he should know the full name of the man who’s about to die.

“James Turner. Nice,” he has to stop for a minute giggle again, and he ignores the fact that Hannibal is walking towards him altogether, “nice to meet you, Mr. Will Graham. I think I’m going to die now.”

And he probably would have, but Hannibal pauses when he hears James say Will’s name. It’s apparently just occurred to him that Mr. Turner might not be hallucinating a conversation with some devil-like creature.

“Who are you speaking to, Mr. Turner?”

James looks at him and frowns, before turning his eyes back to Will. “I don’t like him. He’s the one, he’s the… he hurt me.”

“That’s true, but you should probably answer him anyway. He might hurt you more if you don’t.”

The man seems to take a moment to consider this, before nodding, only to cringe when that upsets one of the many nails in his body. 

“O-okay. That’s true.” He shifts his eyes to look towards Hannibal, who’s been waiting patiently for an answer. “I’m talking to Will. I think,” he giggles again. “I think he’s death. I think he’s here to let me die.”

“And what does this Will Graham look like?”

Will looks at James curiously. He’s kind of wondering that, too. What is James seeing that makes him automatically assume he’s a demon? He can’t look in a mirror, so maybe he really does look like one, and he’s just not aware of it.

“He looks like a demon, but he’s not. He said so. He’s,” James pauses, only to trail off so he can look dazedly at the wall.

“Mr. Turner, what does he look like?”

The question snaps him back to the present. “He’s scary. He has a mouth with no lips, and all his teeth are sharp, and he has horns and two black holes for eyes. He looks hungry, too. Maybe he’s going to eat me. Are you going to eat me?” The last question is directed at him, and he has to take a step back in shock.

He looks like a hungry demon creature? Since when? Will looks down at himself. All he sees is himself, clothed in his regular clothes. He doesn't look particularly hungry, either.

James’s eyes light up, and he’s looking back at the wall again. “I think his friend is here. He looks nicer.”

Will turns around to look where James is looking. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hannibal do the same, but he probably won’t be able to see anything.

There is a person next to the wall. Will can’t see him, he’s covered in a black robe, and the hood covers his entire face. The thing is waiting patiently, not budging an inch even though he has everyone’s full attention, now.

“Who are you?” Will asks, backing up slightly to be nearer to both Hannibal and James.

The creature’s hood moves, as if he’s turned his head to look at him.

“I am waiting.” The voice permeates the air. It doesn't sound like it comes from one specific area, like the man-creature is all over the room when he speaks. It echoes and it feels as if Will hasn't heard the man speak at all, like he’s half forgotten what he’s said.

“He’s waiting for me! I’m ready, you don’t have to wait. I’m ready to go!” James’s voice is a whisper, but he doesn't seem to realize it. The cloaked figure shakes his head at the nailed man.

“Why not? I’m ready now.” He pouts, and then turns his gaze back to Will. “You’re friend is mean.”

“Why can’t he move on?” He’s got a feeling the cloaked man is looking at him again, but looking at him makes him dizzy, so he has too stick with looking over the creature’s left shoulder.

“He’s not dead yet.”

Will takes a second to look at James. He looks dead. He’s pale, and his eyes have lost all focus. Apparently, that’s not enough.

“James. James! James, I need you to look at me.” Will climbs on top of the table, making it easy for James to focus just enough to look at him. “James, I need you to tell Hannibal that I say he can kill you now, okay? Just those words, just ‘Will is asking you to kill me now, please’ alright?”

James frowns, but he obeys anyway. “Will is please you kill me now, he’s asking.” And he’s done. He’s back to looking unfocused, and his breathing is ragged. Maybe, he might die without Hannibal’s help at this point, but he really deserves to pass on as quickly as possible.

Will climbs off the man and looks towards Hannibal, who’s looking curiously at James. He looks slightly perturbed, and he turns to look around the room several times before moving towards Mr. Turner again. Apparently James’s jumbled up plea is enough for him to follow through, regardless of how dubious he is of what’s happening.

His victims speaking of ghosts and demon creatures apparently isn't a common occurrence. Who’d have thought.

He foregoes his scalpel altogether, and instead grabs the discarded hammer and a single nail, and turns James’s head so he can get at a specific part of his head. It takes three solid swings before it’s in all the way, but he does it accurately, and the cloaked figure begins to move forward.

The figure’s gloved hand reaches out, moving inside the man’s chest before pulling out what looks to be a replica of James, except in better condition. The replica—his ghost, Will’s guessing—looks like he’s fast asleep.

The creature turns to face him, though, and Will tenses up.

“Are you here to take me away too?” That would be nice. He’s had enough time walking around on Earth with nothing to do. Maybe if he passes on, the picture of James nailed to a table while Hannibal continues to pound in more will leave his head.

The figure shakes his head, but he walks towards Will with a hand outstretched much the same way he walked towards James. It takes every ounce of self-restraint Will has not to back up or run away. The creature sets off a bad feeling in his gut, and he’s not entirely sure why.

He reaches out and grabs Will’s shoulder, making him flinch at the contact. He hasn't actually been touched in a long time. Something feels weird, though. His shoulder tingles. The feeling spreads out, all along his body, and James’s ghost starts to glow, and then fade.

As James fades, Will begins to feel lighter. Lighter, but also more solid. By the time the creature has removed his hand, Will is too preoccupied with looking at himself to notice that he’s vanished altogether.

His skin looks taught, his clothes are tattered and are hanging loosely from his body. He reaches up to the top of his head, and yes, he feels horns there. He looks the way James saw him, now.

Will turns to look at Hannibal, who’s gone back to his scalpel so that he can remove the organs he’d intended to. He hadn't seen the show, and apparently removing organs is his way of returning to normal activities after this whole ordeal.

“Can you hear me?” It’s a long shot, but he feels stronger, lighter. He feels oddly good, for just watching someone die, actually. And his voice has changed, a bit. It’s deeper, and comes out as more of a purr.

Hannibal doesn't do anything to show that he does, and Will frowns. Is his appearance really the only thing that changed? After all this, the only thing that comes out of it is that he looks like a monster?

He growls—he can do that now, apparently—and swipes the table in frustration. The sound of nails scratching wood greets his ears. That makes him pause. Hannibal looks up too. He’s already holding the man’s liver—he’s really quite good at organ removal, Will notices—and moves towards the edge of the table where he’s at, curiously.

“Are you here, Will?” Hannibal’s voice is admirably firm, for what’s going on. Will, for his part, is internally freaking out over the fact he can do something finally.

Will tries to reach for Hannibal, to see if he can touch the man. He’s not sure what he’ll do if he can, but it’s an irresistible urge. His hand goes right through Hannibal’s shoulder when he reaches out. But Hannibal flinches backwards, raising a hand to where his hand had gone through.

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” Hannibal is half looking at him as he speaks. He can’t see where he’s at, but the ghost of a hand is apparently enough of a guide to take a good guess at where he’s standing.

Will smiles. Or, he tries to smile. The muscles in his face are weird, and he has no lips to pull back. Instead, it feels like he’s shifted his entire jaw line. It’s probably lucky he can’t see his own face in a mirror, because the whole body-changing thing is freaking him out a bit.

Will goes for the table again. The familiar scratch of wood filters through the air, and if he presses hard enough, he can see the indent of his nails. He can touch wood, he just can’t touch Hannibal.

Hannibal’s watching the progression of the nail marks, before an idea seems to strike him.

“Wait here a moment, please. I will be right back.” He turns to exit the room, and Will stalls his curiosity and does as he asks.

When he returns, he’s holding some paper and a pen. He moves to a different, smaller table, and carries a chair with him to sit down in.

“We might try communication, if you feel you can, Will.”

Will raises a surprised, not-really-there eyebrow, and walks over. Unless he wants to use the chair that has the bloody hammer on it, he’s going to have to kneel on the ground to do this.

For once, he’s honestly excited. He might finally be able to interact with the living. Or, he might finally be able to interact with living people who aren't on death’s door. Taking in a deep breath with his new diaphragm, he reaches for the pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of cliffhanger? I didn't mean for it to be that way, and it's kind of a lame cliffhanger anyways, but whatever. It took me longer than I expected to get this chapter out, so apologies for that. Anyways, Hannibal and Will actually get to communicate the next chapter!
> 
> ...I feel like this is a very slow progression. Like, woohoo, Will and Hannibal will actually get to talk in chapter four! Don't move too fast now, we don't want to alarm the readers! Ehehe, anyways, an actual plot has formed in what was otherwise going to be meaningless Ghost!Will fun, so yay for that, kind of?
> 
> Until next time, my lovely readers!


	4. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will sit down and talk some things out.

Pens are terrible, useless writing instruments that Will never wants to deal with again.

This was supposed to be his moment. He would finally be able to communicate with the living world again, whenever he wanted. He could deal with looking like a monster, so long as he could talk like a human. But no matter how many times he’d tried, he couldn’t pick the pen up.

Oh, he can move it, alright. Hannibal must be extremely amused—and probably slightly confused—because all he’s seeing is the pen moving back and forwards across the table. Will doesn't know for sure—that would require looking at Hannibal, and really, his pride can’t take another hit at the moment.

By the time he’s finally able to pick the pen up, it feels clunky in his fingers. He’s stuck feeling like smoke trying to lift a man into the air. It’s one thing to scratch wood; it’s entirely different to delicately handle a small writing utensil, and to use it correctly as a medium for talking to someone.

With that thought in mind, he drops the delicately balanced pen held between his fingers, and picks it up with both hands firmly, without any semblance of grace. It makes him feel like a child, but he’d rather hold the pen like an invalid than not be able to write at all.

He sets his knee on top of the paper to make sure it doesn't move, and lowers the pen to write.

Except now that he’s got a handle on this, he has no idea what to say. ‘The weather’s very nice tonight’ hardly seems like proper small talk between a man and his murderer. But starting out the conversation with a huge confession—maybe ‘hey, sorry I accidentally followed you into the bathroom that one time’—doesn't seem like the best idea, either.

_It’s nice to talk with you again, Dr. Lecter._

There. At least it doesn't make him sound as awkward as he’s feeling.

He looks towards Hannibal, finally, now that he’s brought himself to write something. The amused look he expected to see isn't anywhere in sight. Instead, Hannibal seems rather involved with watching the pen that probably looks like it’s floating in mid-air. It’s less than a second later that he looks down at the paper, but Will’s sure that he continues to glance up at the pen from time to time.

“I hardly think you need to call me Dr. Lecter anymore. Given that I've already killed you, I doubt we could get anymore intimate. Hannibal is fine.” He does a convincing job of looking into Will’s eyes, considering he can’t see where he is.

Will is caught between snorting at the fact that what Hannibal says is true, and anger that he can mention his death so casually. Sure, he’s accepted it by now, but Hannibal doesn't have to be quite so blasé about it.

 _Sorry, Dr. Lecter. I didn't know there were laws of etiquette when dealing with deceased murder victims._ Will pauses for a second, and rolls his eyes. _Though I suppose if anyone would know, it’d be you. For now, I think it might be best if we keep things professional. I’m not feeling particularly friendly to my murderer, at the moment._

God, his handwriting is terrible when he has to write like this. It looks like a five year old wrote it, and it’s slanting almost off the page by the time he’s done.

Hannibal takes a moment to read the paper—upside down, since he hasn't chosen to move it—before thoughtfully turning it over to hide the embarrassment of his writing.

“I was simply trying to show that I don’t wish for our relationship to be dictated by my earlier actions. I do feel sorry for killing you, Will. I never meant for this to happen.” The ‘so soon’ is left hanging at the end, and Will sighs.

He wants to write something about how much of an asshole Hannibal is, but he can’t. It’s not like Hannibal could do anything to him, but the remnants of their time together still linger at the back of his mind. He doesn't want to say something so lowbrow to Hannibal. He doesn't want the judging look that Hannibal will somehow be able to give him, in spite of the fact he’s invisible. Even now, Hannibal is some kind of higher power that he doesn't want to upset.

Fuck.

_It doesn't matter now, I’m already dead. I've had enough time to come to terms with it, anyways._

It’s kind of true, though talking to Hannibal is bringing back some of the resentment. He’s trying to be more concise, now. It does nothing for his dwindling self-esteem that he has to limit his vocabulary in front of Hannibal, but it’s that or mess up an entire page again.

Hannibal is apparently willing to let the half-lie slide for now, but he does give Will that look that he hates. It’s a common one for all of the people he used to know, actually. Entirely knowing, with a small dash of knowingness that suggests they can see into his mind. Only Hannibal's has ever disconcerted him, though.

“Quite. Which brings me to the question of why you’re here?” He moves to answer the question, and Hannibal waves him off. “Not why are you here as a ghost, why were you in this room, watching me kill Mr. Turner?”

Will grimaces. This was exactly the kind of question he didn't want to answer. There’s really no way to say ‘I’ve been following you around’ without sounding creepy. Even as a ghost. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can avoid answering the question outright.

_You adopted my dogs._

Hannibal frowns, but nods in acknowledgement.

“I did, yes. That doesn't answer my question, though, Will. You could have stayed with them when I went out, but you didn’t. You purposefully followed your killer to his hunting ground, and watched him butcher a man. You could have waited out of the room, if the only way back to my house was with me, or you could have chosen not to go altogether. Why follow me?”

Will can bet Hannibal already knows the answer. It’s obvious, so, so obvious. The only person he’d ever seen Hannibal kill was himself, and he was so out of his head at the time that it hadn't seemed real. He needed the proof. And then he’d had to stay once he’d confirmed it, out of guilt for James.

But how can he say that without Hannibal dissecting everything he writes and throwing it back at him?

 _I_ —no he can’t do this. He can’t give a full, detailed response. _I needed proof._

He turns back to look at Hannibal, who’s sending the air next to his head a disapproving look. It diminishes the affect, slightly. Enough for Will to chose not to continue writing, anyway.

“Will.” It’s a warning. Hannibal doesn't suffer fools—even dead ones.

Well fuck him, Will doesn't need to be psychoanalyzed by his killer. When he doesn't write anything further, Hannibal sighs.

“You’re being very childish, Will—”

Will let’s out an unheard snort, at that.

“but I can tell you why you followed me, if you are having trouble forming the words.”

No. No, thank you very much, that’s not going to happen. He doesn't need a repeat of when they’d first met. Hannibal always analyzed him and then spoke to him about the analysis in some way, but he’d never stooped to doing what he’d done that first time they met. Will does not need to be talked at about his own psyche.

_Can you hold the paper while I write?_

If he’s going to do this, he might as well make it easy on himself.

When he looks at Hannibal, he swears he can see a hint of triumph flash across his face, but it’s back to a neutral expression half a second later. He nods, graciously, and Will moves his leg so that Hannibal doesn't accidentally push his hand through it.

He fumbles with the pen for a second, repositioning it so that he can momentarily relieve his clamped hands. They don’t really feel sore, but it feels like they would be if he were alive, so he moves them anyway.

_I followed you because I needed the closure. You killed me, I saw it happen, I felt it happen, but it didn’t feel real. I wanted to see you kill someone objectively, to convince myself it was real. That you’re really the man you said you were._

“And you stayed after you got your proof for what reason?” Hannibal prompted, once he’d seen the pen stop moving across the page.

_I stayed because I didn't want to leave James here by himself, knowing what was going to happen to him._

Hannibal smiles in his direction, before removing his hands from the paper.

“You didn't wish for someone else to suffer through what you suffered. Thank you, Will. I’m sure it doesn't seem this way now, but it’s good for you to let things out, even after death.”

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, ever the helpful psychiatrist. Letting out how he felt about things hadn't really seemed to help him in the past—he’s ignoring the bold-faced lie that is, because really, it’d gotten him killed, regardless of how well or unwell his mental status had been—he doesn't see why he should continue now.

“What purpose did your friend serve, in staying with you? Is he here now?”

Will blinked at the random change of subject. Though, honestly, he saw the cloaked figure and even he was curious about it. Hannibal would be too, naturally. It wasn't really something he knew how to answer, though. He waits long enough for Hannibal to set his hands on the paper again before answering.

_I don’t know who he was. He looked kind of like the Grim Reaper, except he didn't have a scythe, and I couldn't see his face._

“And how long was he here?”

_I’m not sure. He probably came in about the time James noticed him, and he left a couple minutes after you hammered the nail into his head._

Hannibal nodded, looking thoughtful. Well, if anyone were to know lore about a cloaked figure, it would be him.

“What did this cloaked figure do, while he was here?”

It’s kind of an awkward question, because he’s not entirely sure himself. What had the figure done? It was like he’d acted as a medium, almost; he was a medium that sucked up one life, and gave it to another.

_He dissolved James, and gave him to me._

_I think._

There wasn't really another way to put it, without being unnecessarily vague. Not that his explanation was terribly specific. It’s enough for Hannibal, apparently, because he nods.

“A cloaked figure came in, dissolved James’s spirit, and then gave it to you.” He sums up. The irony isn't lost on either of them. Hannibal will eat his body, and Will has eaten his soul. They make quite the pair. “It’s safe to assume that he is the reason you are able to communicate with me, then?”

_Probably._

Will’s choosing not to mention the fact that he turned into a monster as a result, because Hannibal doesn't need to know that. Some things can remain personal, at least. 

“Then, should I choose to, you would get strong if I were to kill again?”

Oh. Oh, no. This was not a conversation they were going to have—ever. Hannibal was not going to kill for him, he wasn't going to let him do that to his mind. He wouldn't. 

Now how is he supposed to tell Hannibal that?

Hannibal sets the almost entirely used up paper aside, and grabs a new one for Will to use. By this point, it’s almost not impossible to write two handed. He can maneuver well enough that his writing isn't embarrassing, at least.

_You can’t kill for me._

“Why not?” He pauses, as if to give him a chance to answer. It’s not an incredibly long chance, as he picks up before Will can move the pen. “Do you think that those deaths will be your fault? That they wouldn't be dead if I had not discovered you were alive as a ghost?” His smile is almost patronizing.

“Will, my killing has never—and will never—be your fault. I will kill the next person, regardless of whether or not it affects you. There will simply be the advantage of you growing stronger, if it does continue to work as it has today.”

Will wants to tell Hannibal that he should stop killing people altogether. He knows it won’t do any good, but it feels like he’s enabling him if he doesn’t. Regardless of what Hannibal says, his being here puts guilt on his shoulders. He can’t just stand by and watch.

_I could go to the police._

There’s the disapproving stare again. He doesn't look serious, though. It’s apparently not much of a threat. 

“Will. Think about how that would work, for a second. Would you leave an anonymous note? Write out that I am a killer, and give irrefutable proof through your block letters? No. You had the chance to turn me in; you could have gone to Agent Crawford the moment you knew who and what I was, but you didn’t. Why not?”

Will wants to answer. He wants to tell him how insane he was that night, that it had nothing to do with Hannibal at all. He wasn’t an accomplice, regardless of his stupid actions before. He wants to tell him that, but he doesn't get the chance.

“Do you blame it on denial? You didn't want to believe I was the Chesapeake Ripper, so you came to me so that I could deny it for you? No, Will. You knew exactly what would happen if you confronted me about my status. This was not a moment of insanity on your part, you are not and were not insane when you came to see me. It was deliberate action on your part, because you would rather be dead than turn on someone you trust.

“Now you are dead, and you are forced into the same position. Why would you choose differently?”

He’s ready, this time, with a quick retort.

_I’d choose differently this time, because choosing you the first time got me killed. Why would I trust you now, when you got me stuck here?_

Hannibal softens his stare at those words, and what he says next comes out gently, as if he were soothing a wild dog.

“I acted rashly when you approached me. I let instinct surpass intellect for one moment, and I regret it every day. I do not want you stuck where you are, Will. I want you to be free and powerful once more. Allow me to do this for my sake, if I can’t do it for yours.”

Will stalls. It’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong, but he wants that, too. He wants to do more than clunkily hold a pen, and give people a shiver when they walk through him. He wants to feel complete again, and Hannibal is offering him that, guilt free. All he has to do is refuse to stop him.

“Nothing is your fault, Will. I’m the one choosing to do this; it has nothing to do with you. My actions lay on my own shoulders, you do not need to falsely blame yourself for what I do.”

It’s kind of true. All he did when he was alive was take on other people’s burdens. He blamed himself for everything, why should he continue to do that now that he’s disconnected from the living world?

It’s not as if he can really do anything now, anyways. A choppy note written in kid scrawl is hardly going to be taken seriously by the FBI or the police. If he just waits, just waits a little while longer, he can chose to turn in Hannibal later. When he’s more capable.

It’s so, so tempting.

Why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he allow himself this one thing? He spent all of his living years in pain, and Hannibal is offering him the chance to feel better. He deserves this. This is his reward. His terrible, twisted reward. As if he deserves anything more.

_Okay._

Hannibal smiles at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of short. :/ The next one should be longer, though!
> 
> And Hannibal is an asshole~ While I mean that in regards to the story, right now he's just being his regular manipulative self. The last episode is when the real assholery took place. I ship Will and Happiness, now. I'm hoping they'll get together sometime soon, before Will and pain end up getting married and start having sadness babies.
> 
> Anyways! Will and Hannibal have finally talked, so I've officially set everything in motion. Muahahaha! Until next time!


	5. Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will learns Hannibal hasn't been quite as honest as he'd thought, and Hannibal continues to be very himself on the matter.

Will half-expected a string of murders to follow their agreement. It didn't happen. Or, to be more precise, it hadn't happened _yet._

It was both a blessing and a curse. The fact that Hannibal didn't immediately start killing people added truth to his statement of killing for his own benefit. It also allowed Will time to second guess and question his own moral compass because he’d agreed to this in the first place, though.

Who’s to say that Jack wouldn't believe an anonymous letter? He was being morally ambiguous at best for his decision right now, but he’ll be downright killing someone by proxy if he waits for Hannibal to kill another person before trying to turn him in.

Hannibal has a knack for interrupting him when he gets too deep into these thoughts. When he’s awake, at least. Will’s all alone when Hannibal goes to sleep. Or, almost alone. His dogs have all but gotten used to his presence in the house, so they’re always nearby, even if he can’t pet them as he’d like to. Even after death, their presence has a calming effect on him.

Even they can only so much. Will's own mind is slowly destroying himself over his decision.

It’s four days after Hannibal murdered James Turner that Jack calls him.

He isn't officially invited to join the investigation, but the fact that Jack has called at all means he soon will be. Hannibal has probably been to many of his crime scenes before, but it makes Will feel weird. He didn't kill James, but he did consume his soul. He wonders, vaguely, if that would be considered illegal, if people knew they had souls that could be eaten.

Apparently nobody in the afterlife cared. Hell, it wouldn't have happened at all if that reaper hadn't done it, so maybe it's considered a good thing. The whole subject kind of confuses Will, honestly.

Hannibal has brought the subject up more than once, but they can’t get anywhere on it when all they have to go on is what happened the one time.

Except now that Will has seen the reaper once, it’s as if he can see him everywhere. It’s always out of the corner of his eye, and the second he looks, the creature disappears, but he can always feel the presence. The only time he doesn't see the creature is when he’s with Hannibal.

Of course, when he’s with Hannibal, he’s dealing with an entirely different kind of monster. He’s an incredibly polite and thoughtful monster, at least. They've developed a system. Will can’t touch Hannibal, but if he concentrates, he can touch his clothing. Now all he needs to do is give Hannibal’s sleeve a pull, and Hannibal gives him a pen and paper to write with.

It’s helpful that he has an actual signaling system with Hannibal, because he likes playing around with things, and if Hannibal thought that his attention was wanted every time something started floating around the room, he’d never get anything done.

The benefits of his practice are obvious. The most significant progress being that he can write single-handedly again, though it still appears to be somewhat childish. At least it isn't almost illegible scrawl anymore.

Hannibal can also start conversations by just sitting down with some paper, but he doesn't do it often. Will’s grateful for that, because even though he probably already assumes it, he’d rather not confirm Hannibal’s possible suspicion that Will spends the majority of his day following him around.

Especially because it’s only gotten worse since the frequent reappearances of the hooded creature.

By the time they both get to the FBI Academy to meet with Jack—Will had originally gone ahead, but after five minutes of paranoid searching for the reaper, he’d given up and gone back to the car with Hannibal—Will’s starting to believe that Hannibal knows when he’s around, regardless of what he did to show his appearance.

That might have been paranoia on his part too, but Will could have sworn that when he’d gone back into the car, he’d seen Hannibal smile to himself. It was always possible he was just musing over something in his head.

Will doesn't really think that’s likely. He isn't brave enough to ask, though, so for now he just has to settle with second-guessing every sign that Hannibal shows towards awareness and lack of awareness to his presence.

Will’s thoughts are derailed when Hannibal gets out of the car. He half wants to try to open the door, just to see if he can, but he’s not entirely sure the parking lot doesn't have security cameras. They’d probably dismiss it, but the thought that they might pay attention to something he does is another building block for his paranoia to grow on. Really, he’s not entirely sure he’s gotten better with paranoia since his death. Instead, he simply moves through the door and follows closely behind Hannibal into the building.

Jack is waiting for Hannibal in a room filled with pictures of James Turner, from several different angles. Seeing the photographs instead of the actual body is odd. It brings back the clear image of James lying there, hysterical and in pain. At the same time, looking at pictures makes it seem unreal, as if the man he'd see die had just been the result of a high-budgeted horror film. Seeing someone die and seeing pictures of someone dead are two entirely different experiences.

He wonders if Hannibal feels that way.

When he turns around to look towards Hannibal, he takes a startled step back at how close he’d gotten without Will realizing it. Hannibal and Jack had bee exchanging pleasantries when he’d been looking at the photos, and he’d totally tuned out his approach.

“This is the second body you've found that looks this way?”

Will raises an eyebrow at that. In the month before he’d woken up, Hannibal's killed someone else like this? Funny how stuff like that never comes up in their conversations.

“Yes. According to Zeller, they were killed roughly three weeks apart. Neither had any connection to each other. James Turner was an accountant that worked for a small business, and the earlier victim, Douglas Carter, worked at a coffee shop thirty miles away.”

Hannibal steps closer to the photos, and Will has to sidestep him entirely so that they don’t end up walking into each other—literally.

“The nailing of Mr. Turner was done before he died, the same as Mr. Carter?” Hannibal asks, feigning ignorance to what James went through, as if he hadn't been there at the time. He’s an incredible actor, Will can give him that.

Jack answers in the affirmative, and Hannibal nods to himself. “And both had an organ removed, with a mirror put in its place?”

He waits for Jack to confirm once more before turning around to look at him. Will’s curious, now. He’d seen Hannibal put the glass in, but he’d never asked what the purpose of it was. He’d honestly been more concerned with the reaper feeding him someone’s soul, at the time.

Now, he might get an explanation to his unasked question.

“There was an African art exhibit traveling near where these people worked. It now resides in Baltimore. I went to see it recently. One of the exhibits held an old artifact made by the Kongo people, an object called a Nkisi Nkondi. People now call them Power Figures or Nail Fetishes, I believe.” He pauses, and both Will and Jack can see where he’s going with this.

“Nkisi Nkondi were seen as aggressive wooden statues that could hunt down liars and law breakers, among other things. The mirror in the belly is a prominent feature of them. We may be dealing with someone who knows of them.”

Hannibal steps away from the board as he finishes speaking, and Jack takes the opportunity to glance at the pictures. He’s undoubtedly never heard of a Nkisi Nkondi before—Will knows he’s never run into one, at least—but the description fits the bodies quite well.

Of course they would, the killer came up with the connection.

Jack looks away from the pictures to put his full attention on Hannibal, who’s awaiting judgment on his hypothesis.

“So you believe there’s someone out there who truly believes in the powers of these Nkisi things? And now they’re going around killing people who they see as liars and lawbreakers?” Jack seems dubious, though he’s probably more dubious at the fact there are people that mentally unstable running around, rather than he is dubious at Hannibal’s hypothesis. It is a sound one, after all.

“No, this killer wouldn't be a true believer of the Nkisi Nkondi’s powers,” Hannibal disagrees, shaking his head at the idea. “They haven’t been used in some time, they’re used mostly as art, now. Most likely, there is someone out there who is disgusted with these men, and he’s using the Nkisi Nkondi as symbolism to show the evil behind their facades.”

“So he’s a vigilante, going out and killing people because he believes they’re evil.”

“In a sense, yes, I suppose he believes he is.”

Jack lets out a sigh, and Will can’t help mirroring him. If he were still alive, still able to connect to people besides those who were being murdered right in front of him, he might have been able to help with this.

It’s a moot point, unfortunately.

He goes back to looking at the pictures, and now that he actually looks, he can see Douglas Carter in the separate pictures. They're similar looking, and his mind had automatically focused on James, rather than the other man.

Jack and the team are all probably going to fly out to the local police department in the next few day, to confer with them. It’s too bad he and the killer already know they’re going on a wild goose chase. It does bring up the question of how many other known murderers are actually Hannibal, though. All of his murders can’t be chalked up to the Chesapeake Ripper, or his human meals would be far fewer than what Will knows they are.

By the time Jack and Hannibal are done talking about the details of the case—it’s mostly one-sided talking by Jack at this point, telling Hannibal what he thinks of the other evidence—it’s almost an hour and a half later.

Will finds it a little sad that he knows they’re going to have to go soon, because they’re seeing— _Hannibal’s_ seeing, he’s got to stop thinking _they_ all the time—a patient soon. Sure enough, Hannibal excuses himself several minutes later, and they’re both walking back to the car.

Will wants to be able to talk aloud again. He wants to ask questions, and he can’t when Hannibal’s driving. Writing is tedious, and the last thing Will needs is Hannibal getting into a car crash because he wanted to tell him something. Or maybe that’s exactly what he needs, but entertaining thoughts on killing people probably isn't something he should linger on. Even if that person killed him first.

So he waits until they’re in his office, while Hannibal finishes getting ready for his next patient.

He always feels awkward getting near enough to Hannibal to grab his attention. It’s effective, but it still requires him to stand directly next to him, and sometimes when he doesn't plan it right, Hannibal walks through him before he manages to tug.

He manages all right this time, at least. A quick tug at his sleeve, and Hannibal is walking towards his desk to grab some paper.

“You would like to ask me something, Will?”

Of course he would. Hannibal has probably been waiting for this ever since they left Jack’s office.

He has questions bubbling up inside of him, but writing them out is difficult. He has the advantage of choosing each word before he takes up a pen to write, and all it does is add to the pressure. More pressure is hardly something he needs right now.

_You haven’t gone to the African art exhibit here._

Statements are always easier to write than questions. They’re a starting point; they give him an anchor to go from while talking to Hannibal—something he desperately needs, at times.

Hannibal smiles at him—Will has come to the conclusion that he takes a guess where his head is based on which direction the paper is pointed at and a good memory of how tall Will is. He’s successfully done it one too many times for it to be a happy coincidence. 

"You're quite correct, I've never been in the exhibit in my life. The Nkisi Nkondi are on display there, though, if you would like to see them.”

He likes his statements, but Hannibal doesn't respond to him the way he wants him to unless he asks a specific question. It’s an ongoing battle of tug-o-war that Will always inevitably loses, but sometimes it’s fun to pretend he can get through an entire conversation without asking a single question.

_You aren't the vigilante type. You weren't acting as a vigilante when you killed James, you probably weren't with Douglas Carter, either._

In fact, Will knows he wasn't being a vigilante with Carter. He can’t imagine a time when Hannibal would ever kill someone for that specific purpose.

The smile doesn't leave Hannibal’s face. He knows the game just as well as Will does. He probably enjoys it a fair bit more than he does, too. He doesn't deign to answer Will’s statement, this time.

Well, Will has always had a talent for talking at people.

_Obviously the vigilante reuse is a decoy to keep Jack busy, but you didn't have to make the connection between your killings and the Nkisi Nkondi at all, and yet you did it anyway._

_You don’t want to frame someone for your work,_ though he didn't have a problem copycatting other people’s works, Will thought with some kind of bitter amusement, _because you have no tolerance for people taking credit for what you do. The purpose behind giving Jack a false lead wasn't to get him to arrest someone else for the murders, then. You could just be covering yourself, so that Jack starts out his investigation looking the wrong way, but the likeliness that he’ll suspect you of the killings is nonexistent anyway, so you didn't have to do it._

_You had an idle curiosity of how he was doing in the case, so you went to him and helped him out. That way, he’d come to you later with other cases that are more interesting or important than this one, thereby cementing your status to him as a useful tool. That way, he starts to trust you and you get closer to the inner workings of his mind. The whole point of this was to further ‘good relations’ with Jack._

Will turns the paper over towards Hannibal, so that he doesn't have to read the entire thing upside down. He hadn't meant to dissect the entire meeting like that, but that old feeling of accidentally connecting with other people had almost felt like it’d come back for a second. He’d halfway gotten into Hannibal’s head, and he couldn't get out until he wrote it all down. It’s not a place he wants to think about, actually. Even as clinical as that was, it’s easy to imagine him getting too carried away.

Hannibal reads over what he’d written before he looks up again, a different smile sliding over his face. Where before he’d looked amused, now he looks as if Will has just presented him with an exquisite gift. “Your mind is still quite sharp, even after death. It’s good to know that not everything changes when we pass on.”

He sets that paper aside and hands Will another one.

“Is there anything else you wished to say, aside from telling me your analysis of my actions?” He’s not sarcastic with his question; his voice holds an honest question. Will imagines Hannibal wouldn't mind if his sole purpose for this conversation had simply been to tell him that. He’d never been particular about what Will brought up in conversation, so long as it was relevant to Will’s thoughts.

Will’s thoughts on him probably held a great deal of interest to him.

Now that he’s written all of that, though, his questions are largely moot. Simply working through it all with Hannibal present is largely what he needed in order to come to grips with everything.

There is something, however, that lingers in the back of his mind. It makes him feel guilty just thinking about it, though honestly, he knows Hannibal won’t judge him for it.

_You must kill under several different identities._

And the smile switches back to one of amusement. Clearly his pleasure from the analysis isn't enough to get Will a free pass this time through. Well fine, he’d done well this time.

_How many do you have?_

It’s not a question he strictly needs—nor wants, for that matter—the answer too. At the same time, it feels like he should know. It’s the type of question that will eat at him whenever he gets a spare moment to himself to think, and it’s the type of answer that will gnaw at his mind if Hannibal chooses to give it. He’s learning to live with those, now that he’s dead.

“I have several. I’d gladly tell you each of them, if there were time. Quite a few of them were from a time when I lived outside the United States, and they never gathered as much attention as some of the ones I have here. You likely haven’t heard very much about them, if you've heard the names at all.”

In spite of himself, Will is somewhat curious. It’s a morbid interest, but he’s never heard of anything relating to Hannibal’s past before. His different personas as a serial killer and cannibal could probably paint a detailed picture of what he was like growing up.

He wants to ask him how he chooses which people to kill, but the criteria for that isn't a mystery; he’s known what Hannibal thinks of his victims from the very beginning. They were pigs, worth no more than the organs they could provide. It doesn't take a lot of thought to establish whom Hannibal would consider a pig in society. Many people probably thought that way about Hannibal’s victims, they were just less active in their dislike than he was.

Still, they couldn't be people who influenced his life very much. If everyone he killed could somehow be linked back to him, someone would have found the connection by now.

“Will?”

Hannibal breaks him out of his reverie, and he looks up to Hannibal’s questioning face. Drifting off into silence is difficult when the other person can’t see what he’s doing.

_I was caught up in my own thoughts. Sorry._

“You’re forgiven, however my patient is waiting outside.”

Oh, well it seems like he’d wasted all his time. He writes a quick good-bye to Hannibal before leaving the office. The thought of staying inside the room while people talk to Hannibal makes him uncomfortable. Privacy is privacy, even for the dead.

\-----

The rest of the day is gone by the time Hannibal finishes up with his list of patients. Will’s ready to go back in and bring up what they’d been talking about earlier, but as he steps through the door—he opens it to step through, both because it’s reassuring to know he still can, and because it alerts Hannibal of his presence—Hannibal stops him from going back to where their paper lies.

“I need to run an errand before we continue our conversation, Will. You’re free to join me, of course. It’s quite important that you do, in fact.” Hannibal isn't rushing as he says this. He’s still tidying up some of his notes, but he’s far enough away that he can’t read anything Will writes.

Not being able to talk aloud makes it very hard to ask questions Hannibal doesn't want to answer. Like what, exactly, this errand is supposed to be. The fact that he isn't telling Will gives him a pretty good idea of what he’s going out to do anyway.

The three-hour drive, the toolbox, and the cooler are all much more obvious clues. Not that he’d really needed one. The vague mention of ‘running an errand’ and that it was ‘quite important he come' practically screamed Hannibal’s purpose. That had probably been the point of it.

He regrets not asking him how he knew exactly where all of his victims were, all the time. He has to have a pretty good idea of their schedule, but he doesn't sit around all hours of the day following them around. Maybe he’s just very good at research and deducting where they’ll be. Maybe Lady Luck loves him more than his victims. Somehow, Will could believe just about anything right now.

This time the victim is a woman. She’s tall, maybe attractive in another light, though the sliver of a crescent moon isn't doing her any good. Will stays in the car, this time. He doesn't want to look closely at her, he doesn't want to connect with her or somehow feel responsible for her. He really just wants to go back to Hannibal’s house and accept what’s going to happen from a distance.

It seems kind of important that he doesn't, considering he's part of the reason this is happening.

Sure, Hannibal would probably be killing this woman, regardless of whether Will was there to see it or not. It doesn't change the fact that he’s now an ulterior motive for the killing, and that he’s doing nothing to stop it from happening.

Will taps an out-of-beat tune the entire drive to the murder ground—this time it looks as if they’re going into the woods, there’s no pathway in sight—and if Hannibal minds, he doesn't comment on it.

They park a little ways off the street, far enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice the car that’s parked their. Hannibal takes the supplies out of the back first. Will still doesn't leave the car, so he’s not sure how far into the woods Hannibal goes before he comes back. It’s been several minutes at that point, so he can guess it’s an adequate ways.

When he goes to take the woman out of the car, Will still can't bring himself to leave the front seat. It’s not until Hannibal’s almost out of sight that he sighs and appears beside him. A quick glace at the woman tells him she’s still knocked out, which is better than what happened last time.

The walk is significantly longer with the extra weight for Hannibal to carry. Will’s looked in every direction during their walk, accept at the girl again. It makes him uncomfortable, looking at the face of the woman who is about to die. By the time they reach their destination—marked by the supplies on the ground, otherwise it didn't look any different from any other part of the woods—he doesn't really have any choice but to look over at her.

If he’s going to stay here and watch this, it’s about time he sees what’s going to happen. The girl is lying flat on the ground now. Her hands and feet are tied together—though this time with rope, where James had duct tape and handcuffs.

Her entire face is lax. She’ll have no idea where she is when she wakes up, and even after she catches her bearings, she still probably won’t know who her killer is. Will can’t imagine this is anyone important in Hannibal’s life. She probably met him one time, and now here she is, about to be strung up and murdered.

Literally, as it happens. There’s a rope hanging from a tree branch that’s purpose isn't hard to guess. One end of it can reach the ground, and Will has to turn away from the scene altogether when Hannibal moves her over so that he can switch from one rope to another. He can hear the pull of the rope as Hannibal lifts her off the ground, and the steady back treading of Hannibal’s feet as he moves to another tree so that he can tie the rope around it.

He can picture her, hung up by her hands, her back to the tree trunk. He knows Hannibal isn't done preparing yet. Allowing her to stay like this would give her too much leverage with her feet, and a writhing victim doesn't allow for the precision that Hannibal puts into his kills.

Will doesn't have to look; he can see exactly what’s happening no matter which direction his eyes face. He can see Hannibal grabbing another rope, tying her legs against the tree so she won’t be able to kick out. He knows exactly how Hannibal ties the rope, so that her body is stretched taught. She won’t be able to move at all, and the position itself will be incredibly uncomfortable when she wakes up.

He turns back around to look at Hannibal, instead of the woman. He’s arranging his supplies. The nails have come out again, along with the hammer. It looks like the same one, but Will knows it’s not, because he saw Hannibal leave the old one in the house that James was killed in.

It must be a common brand, one that he could get from anywhere. Will wonders if he bought the hammers in bulk, or if he went back to buy the hammers one at a time. Did he convince the cashier that he was working on a big construction project?

For a second, he allows himself to imagine Hannibal wearing a disguise, dressed up to look like an ordinary construction worker. The idea makes him want to both laugh and cry. It’d be funnier if Hannibal wasn't about to kill someone.

“I brought a flashlight and something for you to write on, if you’d like to talk before she wakes up.” Hannibal’s talking aloud, but he’s not looking anywhere in particular. He probably has no idea where Will is, let alone if he was able to stomach staying out here with him for so long.

Will goes over to where the paper and pen are, and shifts them over so that he can sit across from where Hannibal is. There’s a board under the paper so that he can write properly, but he still has to bend over the paper because he can’t rest it in his lap. Being a ghost comes with irritating rules.

Will wants to talk, he wants to forget about the fact that he’s here, that he’s about to, once again, watch Hannibal kill someone. He just doesn't know what to say.

_How long ago did you plan this out?_

It’s not a good question for forgetting about his predicament, but it’s a start for conversation, at least. His default conversation starters seem to all be about murder.

“I began planning this over a month and a half ago. It was shortly after I killed you, actually. I couldn't bring my plan to fruition until now.” He doesn't explain why, and Will takes that as an invitation to write his own theory.

_You were still consoling Jack that my assumed death wasn't his fault when I first saw you. Giving him a string of murders would have displaced his attention. You could have used it to your favor, but allowing him some time to grieve and confide in you was the quickest route to open communication between the two of you._

It makes sense in a practical, detached sort of way. It’s not the way he wants to be thinking of Jack. It makes him uncomfortable, imagining the way Hannibal thinks of people. Like he's god standing before his people, deciding who should live and who should die.

He doesn't turn the paper around, so it takes a second for Hannibal to read over what he’s written. When he does, that smile comes back again, as if he’s immensely pleased with Will. 

“Very good, Will.”

He doesn't like that it feels nice to be praised. He’s not a dog, and figuring out the motive behind Hannibal’s actions is hardly something he wants to feel good about. It seems odd, that now that he’s finally starting to feel connected to the living world again, Hannibal is who he feels closest to.

He should have chosen to stay at Alana’s house. He knows that he never would have—staying there, when she’s unaware of it, somehow feels several times creepier than staying at Hannibal’s—but at least he’d feel uncomfortable for normal reasons, then.

_You never explained how you knew about the Nail Fetish things._

When Hannibal remains silent, Will has to roll his eyes in frustration. He’s not in the mood to argue the point, though.

_Where did you learn about them?_

“I've known about Nkisi Nkondi for several years. At one time I took an interest in African art, and they were included in my studies. They have an interesting meaning behind them, although the purpose they served to their people was quite vulgar.”

Will laughs. It’s kind of absurd to use the word vulgar, when considering what they’re about to do.

_And people usually aren't vulgar?_

Hannibal smiles at him—he’s really getting quite good at drawing that reaction from him.

“People are many things. One man’s vulgarity is another man’s art. I simply meant to say that their practice is now something people would agree is uncivilized. The negative past they have associated with them draws the meaning of their use as an art form to the front. As I said, I found them interesting.”

And so when they arrived in an exhibit, it was as good a thing to use as any. If he were alive, Will would probably vomit. The casual perspective of killing is unpleasant, to say the least. They really need lighter subject matter, but he doesn't know how to bring up pleasant conversation. Even when he was alive, the majority of their conversations were about either murder or how he was feeling. Neither were particularly light-hearted subjects.

“Do you still see the reaper-like creature out of the corner of your eye?” Hannibal asks, and it’s not much for lightening the conversation, but it’s better than talking about casual ways to kill people.

_Sometimes. He’s not around as often anymore._ He doesn't add the ‘not since I've started following you around more closely’. It's one thing for Hannibal to know that Will's getting stalked. The thought of him finding out that Will is stalking him in return makes Will feel like a schoolboy who knows he's done something wrong. It’s not terribly important that Hannibal knows how closely he’s being followed, anyway.

“If he’s giving you their souls, as it appears he is, it’s possible he’s some sort of Grim Reaper type figure. A man who’s purpose is to guide souls to the afterlife, but instead he gives them to you. A reaper who disobeys his post, then. Unless, of course, that’s part of his post. Knowing the afterlife exists makes myth and legend seem far more likely, when considering who the mystery figure is.”

Will is inclined to agree. It’s too bad there isn't a reliable source to get information from. There are so many myths and legends about death—most of which contradict each other—that everything seems just as plausible as anything else. It opens up a lot of doors, and there’s no way to determine whether they've found the right one or not.

He’s cut short from replying when the woman starts mumbling from where she’s tied.

“It appears our friend is waking up.” Hannibal stands up and walks over to the woman, who’s eyes are fluttering open, now that she’s gone quiet again. She’s going to wake up any moment now, and the first thing she’s going to see is her killer standing in front of her.

Will’s starting to feel sick again.

Hannibal gags her mouth, similarly to what he’d done to James when he’d first put him in the trunk. He waits for her eyes to focus on his face before he speaks.

“I’m sorry for the gag, but you never know when someone might drive by in the middle of the night. It’s best not to take chances. I’ll remove it for you later, when it’s needed.” The last part is said towards her, but it’s directed at him.

Will turns around resolutely and tries his best to ignore the muffled screaming that starts shortly after Hannibal is done speaking. He fails.

It feels like hours go by before she sees him—and it’s obvious when she does. Hannibal waits about a minute after each nail goes in to allow her to catch her breath, and her screams started to fade about the same time James’s had. Both had admirable stamina in that area, that they could keep screaming for so long. The sharp inhale of breath, followed by attempted talking is audible through the gag. Especially in comparison to exhausted silence that had been in place before.

Will turns around to look at her. She’s practically nailed to the tree, in some places. In others, it doesn't look like the nails went all the way through her body, so they couldn't find purchase in the wood behind her.

Hannibal removes the gag a couple seconds after watching her eyes widen and her screams to start coming back.

Both he and the woman stare at each other in silence for a several seconds, before he slowly raises his hands in what he hopes is a placating manner. He has no idea how to start this conversation. James had been something of a special case.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” It’s cliché, and a bad start to their conversation, but she looks like she’s about to faint and that’s the only thing he can think of to say. Though at this point, it’d probably be a mercy for her if she could faint from fright. It would save her a lot of pain.

He tries to step closer to her, to ignore the fact that his stomach is rolling as he sees a clearer image of what she looks like, but she starts trying to squirm away from him. She’s going to kill herself, if she continues. He stops.

“I won’t come near you if you don’t want me to. I promise, I won’t even touch you.” He doesn't add that he _can’t_ touch her. She doesn't seem to hear him, though.

“I-I’m a God fearing woman, Demon! You can’t take me, I go to church, I've—I’m… I won’t be touched by you!”

He recoils slightly, at that, and looks down at himself. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that he doesn't look like himself anymore.

“What does he look like?” Hannibal asks her, a feigned concern that has the woman looking at him suspiciously. She’s trapped between a killer and a demon. There isn't a textbook response for this, really.

“Did you summon him? You’re going to kill me, murder me, because of some Devil’s pact you made? I won’t do it, I’m not being fed to some disgusting creature like him!” She’s very forceful, but she can’t gather enough air into her lungs to actually shout. The fact that she tries to at all sends her into a coughing fit, which only aggravates the nails more.

Will wishes that Hannibal had just kept the gag in, so he didn't have to hear this.

“I promise I won’t let him eat your soul, Ms. Karr. But you have to tell me what you see, first.”

The woman is practically frothing at the mouth, with how poorly she’s taking this. Hannibal had avoided a lot of her upper body, so her head wasn't as difficult to move as James’s had been. As a result, she seems stuck twisting her head to look back and forth at the two of them.

“I won’t make deals with a devil worshiper! You can’t bribe me, I won’t do it.”

Hannibal can probably sense the lie in that. Will can, at the very least. Hannibal looks to where she’s looking at. His eyes waver for a second, before he fixes them steadily close to where Will’s standing. It’s convincing enough that it looks like he can see him, too.

“Very well. Demon, I give you this gift from the living world. I ask you to step forward and rip her spirit from her body, so the devil may feast on her soul.” Hannibal says it in a way that, even if the words hadn't been ridiculous, is laughably over the top, and exactly the kind of thing that would make most people roll their eyes. It makes the woman panic. Apparently when she imagines this type of thing happening, formal invitations seem perfectly logical. Maybe Hannibal’s had enough people talk to him about this type of thing that he knows what pushes the correct triggers in their minds.

Will wants to run away. This is not how he wanted this to go—not that he wanted it to _go_ anyway at all, really—he doesn't want to be used as some sort of psychological torture method.

He’s going to turn, he’s going to bolt to the car. He won’t even vanish, he’ll just run his way back. He’s already moving when he collides with the cloaked figure.

The woman is trying to scream bloody murder now. She can’t, she's already screamed herself raw long before this, but she’s still falling apart. Will feels that way, too. He’d collided with the figure, and ended up falling backwards. He hasn't affected the figure at all, but it made his insides turn. This was a creature that was not meant to be touched, it’s obvious from the moment you see him. It’s more obvious when you run straight into him.

He scrambles back a ways, not bothering to get up as he tries to move away from the creature. The woman is babbling something, and both Hannibal and the hooded figure are as calm as they always are. It's a stark contrast that sets Will even more ill at ease.

“Tell me what you see.”

She doesn't hesitate this time. Anything to make the monsters go away, probably. “There’s a, there’s a hooded figure, standing next to a tree. The demon’s on the ground in fr—in front of him.”

“What do they look like?” Hannibal is calm and controlled, and the woman seems to be feeding off it. She’s so scared of the monsters in front of her, her killer is now acting as her safe haven. Will knows the feeling.

“The demon is—the demon was about your height, standing up, with long horns coming out of his head. He looks like he’s in human clothes, but they’re too big for him. He’s, he has no soul. He has no soul, I can see it in his eyes. Lord have mercy, he's going to kill everyone on Earth.”

The woman is crying, and Will’s too busy staring at the reaper to even really register what she’s saying. He can hear it, he just can’t interpret it. Now that he’s moved away from the creature, it’s like he can’t work his body anymore.

“I don’t know what the cloaked figure looks like. I can’t see his face. He’s tall, though. Taller than you. He’s just standing there. Why is he just standing there!?”

She’s having a breakdown. She makes a few more unintelligible noises before going mostly quiet. Will gathers enough strength to turn his head away from the reaper, only to see that it looks like the woman is convulsing. She frightened herself into having some kind of fit.

Hannibal is examining her, but apparently whatever’s happening isn't something he can fix out in the woods. Will can see the exact moment she stops breathing. Hannibal steps aside, and Will can see him examining his surroundings.

Without her alive, he really has no idea what’s going on.

The figure starts walking towards the woman. Will doesn't even know her name this time, and he’s about to absorb her soul. He feels like he might have a panic attack. It’s like the moment he saw his own body, where he can’t handle the reality surrounding him. Except this time his reality is in the shape of a hooded figure walking towards him with someone's soul in his hand.

The cloaked man is already next to him by the time he gathers any strength to try running away again. He picks Will up by the shoulder, standing him on his feet as the familiar tingling sets forward through Will. It still feels wrong, touching him, but it's overridden by the surge of energy flowing through him.

It’s calming, in some way. Like he’s feeding off of the peace she’s in now that she’s dead.

He lets in a gasp of air when the reaper figure finally releases his shoulder, and slowly sinks to his knees. He feels good. He feels alive and tingly, like his whole body fell asleep and it’s now finally waking up.

“Will?”

Will turns his head up towards Hannibal, who’s looking directly at him. It sets Will’s nerves alight.

“Will you’re,” Hannibal stops, he looks confused, like he can’t form the words he wants to. “You’re flickering.”

Will looks down at himself. He doesn't see anything unusual, compared to how he has been. He looks back up at Hannibal, but he’s searching around the woods again.

“Can you see me?”

Hannibal's eyes snap back to where he is. He still looks shocked, confused about what’s happening, but his expression straightens out some. It’s not a perfect mask, but he looks more put together than before. Not even seeing Will as a demon can shatter his mask.

“Not anymore, you've vanished. It’s good to hear your voice again, Will.”

Will frowns. He stands up, moving around in front of Hannibal. His eyes don’t follow him. Apparently the flickering had only been a reaction to the sudden boost in energy. He can talk now, though. He can actually have a conversation with Hannibal. He feels like he might faint.

He wants to have a long, drawn out conversation. He wants to go find a phone book and start reading out names, just to ensure that Hannibal will still be able to hear him. Most of all, he wants to go to sleep. That’s nothing new. Feeling like he might be able to, though, that’s never happened before.

“I’ll, uh, I’m going to… I’ll meet you back at your house.”

Will feels queasy. He doesn't wait for Hannibal to answer him, he just vanishes. He’s not sure he ever actually makes it to Hannibal’s, or if he just disappeared to somewhere else in the woods. His mind falls blank. After weeks of being forced to stay awake, he’s finally able to rest again.

It doesn't feel as good as he imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head-cannon (for my own story, wtf??) Hannibal keeps those written analyses for a very long time and gets off on them when he's in bed. I also like to imagine that Will is there watching him. What this head-canon basically means: I really want to write porn but Will isn't mentally prepared for it yet. Like seriously, I could get around the fact that Will was intangible if the man could just fucking accept Hannibal was a murderer and move on.
> 
> Jesus Will, it's just murder and cannibalism it's not like he killed y--oh wait. o_o
> 
> Nkisi Nkondi are real things, and they're funny and odd and perfectly creepy. Also, my word document wants me to correct 'Nkondi' to 'Klondike' and those are just two entirely different things. Fear the Klondike Murderer!
> 
> Anyway, I get to write fun stuff next chapter! Not the fun stuff (* cough * porn * cough *) I want to, but other stuff I enjoy. So yay!


	6. Summoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will finally gets an explanation, and he and Hannibal come to another understanding.

Will wakes up disorientated and dry mouthed. It feels like he’s just woken up from a coma—he has no idea where he is, or how long he’s been out. And he’s insufferably, unbearably in need of something to eat and drink.

He takes a moment to settle himself, to push away the slight feeling of nausea and get used to the pounding in his head. When he finally opens his eyes, he’s looking directly into the face of the reaper that’s been following him around. Or, more specifically, the _not_ face of the reaper. He staring into the hood of a figure that has no head to lift it.

He jerks back with a yelp. It’s a bad idea. His whole body lights on fire, like he has sand in his joints, with his muscles too taut to stretch properly. His head hits the ground as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It take him a moment to realize that the ground is moving beneath his head.

He jerks up again, ignoring the pain completely so he can push himself off the ground to try and stand upright. He moves too quickly, he probably would have fallen right back down if the reaper hadn't grabbed his shirt to keep him from doing so. Which leaves him hanging in his grasp, pretty much unable to move while he tries to get the headache that’s pounding in his head to go away, and the screaming of his entire body to lessen.

He has no idea what’s happening.

The reaper lets him go when he’s finally able to—mostly—stand up on his own. His hand is still firmly planted on Will’s shoulder, though. The contact is unpleasant, but it’s preferable to the moving ground, which he can finally look at now that his head isn't about to split in two.

This time, without the hooded, headless reaper to stand in his way, several things hit him at once. First, it’s clear that wherever he is, he didn't end up anywhere near Hannibal’s house. Second, the ground isn't so much moving as it is pulsing. The ground is literally undulating away from one spot. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, the spot the ground is trying to flee from holds a man sitting on a throne.

Well, perhaps ‘man’ isn't quite the right word. He looks like he’d once been a man, like Will had. Where Will had lost weight, though, he looks big and powerful, like he’s designed for ripping people apart. The fact that he shares some of Will’s newer traits—like his horns and his black ‘soulless’ eyes, if Ms. Karr and James are to be believed—does nothing to ease Will’s nerves. He wants nothing more than to run away from the sitting man.

Unfortunately the reaper holding his shoulder won’t let him. He might not have been trying to help him stay up at all. He certainly wasn't doing it now, with how hard he’s gripping his shoulder.

The man on the throne smiles at him indulgently.

“You must be the famous William Graham. I've heard so much about you,” he looks over Will’s appearance for a second, before saying, with perhaps a bit of honest eagerness, “It’s nice that we can finally meet.”

With that the man moves to his feet, trailing closer to where Will stands. He only has to take a few steps before he’s almost unbearably close. The same energy that seems to be repulsing the very ground he walks on is acting similarly towards Will. Just like the reaper had, this man gives him a gut feeling that makes him want to run away. Except it’s compounded about a hundred times, now that the man’s gotten closer. The energy he gives off is enough to stifle anything Will might have said to the man.

The man can probably tell. If he does, he ignores it.

“How rude of me! I know your name but you have no idea who I am. People on Earth have named me both God and Satan, and variations there of, right now.” He’s smirking, as if sharing his amusement with the names. “No doubt that will change as time goes on, but we both know how stubborn humans can be. You may call me My Lord.”

Will’s almost positive he’s never _ever_ going to call him that. He’ll just have to try not to use a name at all. He gathers himself up, using his Lord’s—seriously?—silence to find his voice again.

“Why am I—” his voice cracks, and he has to clear it several times before his voice comes back, “Where am I?”

The man—he really can’t even continue to think ‘My Lord’ in his head, it just sounds ridiculous—smiles at him. Will’s not sure if he was waiting to see if Will could talk, or if he was waiting for that specific question before he went into an explanation. Either way, he looks pleased.

“It’s good to see you've gotten your voice back.” So, the former, then. “I've found newcomers like yourself seem to lose their voice when I’m around. I suppose your little personal food bank has been keeping you well fed and cared for, though. That must help.” He gives Will a knowing look, and Will is a second behind in figuring out who he’s talking about. He’s never heard Hannibal referred to as his own ‘personal food bank’ before.

“As for where you are, I thought it would be obvious. You’re in the afterlife.” He motions to the area around them.

It’s not exactly indicative of some type of afterlife; it looks more like they’re in the middle of a forest. If it weren't for the pulsing ground, he’d think that he was in the same forest he’d fallen asleep in. For all he knows, he is, and this guy is just playing some kind of weird hazing trick on him. Or maybe he really is talking to a God/Satan mixture and life really is that screwed up.

Nothing make sense, even in his un-life.

“Wasn't I in the afterlife before, when I was following Hannibal around?”

He feels stupid for not understanding. He feels sick and drained and like he’d like to go back to sleep, and he can’t think because of it. It doesn't make sense.

The man looks at him pityingly. Maybe if he is God/Satan, he knows exactly what he’s thinking and he’s sympathizing. Or maybe Will just looks like hell, and he feels sorry for the poor addled little man.

“It’s a common misconception, though people rarely experience it the way you do. The afterlife isn’t life after death, as people seem to think the name suggests. It’s the conglomerate of everybody’s religious beliefs. They all believe something happens them after they die, and it’s split up into different places and given different names, and they all really make a mess of it. The afterlife is where they go after they die. The afterlife is here. You’re just special.” The man goes back to sit in his chair, and a pressure in Will’s chest lifts.

It makes his head a little bit clearer, at least. Well, it clears his head enough to make room for more confusion and questions. He takes an experimental step away from the reaper who’s still holding his shoulder. He releases him, which helps clear his mind out more. The less people near him and touching him, the better.

“Why am I special? And where was I, if not ‘the afterlife’?”

The man waves him off from his seat. He reminds Will of Hannibal, actually. Their mannerisms are different, but they possess the same self-assuredness and tranquility. Somehow, Will finds that Hannibal is the preferable, of the two.

Which is quite scary, given that he’s just come to realize that Hannibal is comparable to a possible god. He’s not sure what that says about him, that he’d prefer a fake, murderous god to a possible real one.

“You’re rushing into things, Will. I understand this isn't easy for you to cope with, but me shoving words into your brain is hardly going to help you come to terms with your situation. We have a little time; sit down. Eat something, if you’d like.” He motions to the reaper beside Will, who disappears almost instantaneously. “The only thing I ask is that you try to stay awake for a little while longer.”

Will feels conflicted. He has no idea what’s happening, and he doesn't particularly want to sit at the feet of a man on a throne. Regardless of the man’s status, it feels subservient. Like he’s a dog, sitting at his master’s feet. For some reason, it doesn't feel right, meeting the supposed ‘God’, and then having to sit at his feet.

It feels like he’s being taught his place. The newcomer needs to learn who’s important around here, and get a reality check on how unimportant he is. Will doesn't feel particularly important at the best of times, but he’s never had to kneel at someone’s feet before, to drive the point home.

The reaper comes back before he manages to say anything—or make a final decision over how degrading it would be to sit down—and he’s momentarily distracted by what’s in his hands.

It looks like a body. A real, dead body, actually, not just the spirit of someone. So somehow solid people can arrive here, but he couldn't when he woke up as a ghost.

His headache is coming back again.

The dead person is laid down at his feet.

The man on the throne motions between him and the body. “I think it’s time you learned how to prepare your own meals, Will. It’ll be good for you, in the long run.”

“This is okay, then?” At the man’s blank look, Will scrambles to find the words for his question, “I mean, it’s okay that I—that I’m eating people’s souls?”

The man lets out a bark of a laugh and smoothly glides to his feet again, before approaching both Will and the body. “Will, you naïve young man. I forget what it’s like, you know. To not know how the afterlife works. I usually don’t deal with newcomers.” He sniffs at Will in something like disdain, “You’re all so… oblivious.”

He continues on as if he hadn't just insulted him. “There are upwards of six billion people on the planet at any given moment, Will. People die frequently, and people are born at a speed that supersedes that rate. It’s the balance of life, and it’s currently off balance.”

“Did you know that almost 103 billion people have died since the human race was created?” He waits a beat, but continues on after less than a second, “Of course not, even scientists can’t be sure of it. I've been here from the beginning, though. I've seen every single soul pass from the gates of the living, into the gates of the dead. I can count, in my head, how many people are in the afterlife right now.”

He stops for a second, seemingly to follow through with counting how many people are here. “Including this pour soul,” he motions towards the dead body lying on the ground, “there are currently just shy of eleven billion people here. That’s almost double what’s on Earth.”

The man casts a severe look at Will, as if those facts mean anything to him. He doesn't understand the afterlife, and the number of people in it doesn't tell him anything. The man seems to recognize his lack of reaction, and he sighs.

“The afterlife isn't infinite, Will. We’re overcrowded, and we still have to accept in the important souls. Like you, for instance. You are important, you are worth keeping around. He,” he motions to the dead man again, “is scum. He’s not worth anything to anyone, and in the end, his life doesn't matter. To save space, to _survive_ , we eat people like him.”

The man snaps his fingers at Will’s blank look. This is going way over his head. The man goes from sitting in his throne, telling Will to slow down, and now he has facts thrown in his face at a hundred miles a second.

“This is all important, Will, keep up. You need to understand all this very quickly, I hadn't realized how little time we had until I looked closer at you—”

“At me?” Will interrupts him, startled.

“Yes, at you. Have you looked at yourself lately? You’re flickering.”

Will looks down at himself, and just like with Hannibal, he doesn't see anything. He looks back up to tell the man so, but he’s cut off before he can.

“Of course you don’t, your eyes haven’t adjusted yet. Well, it doesn't matter what you see, because I can see it for you and I've had much more experience. You’re going to fall asleep soon and I have very small windows to talk to you as it is. Sit down, shut up, and do exactly as I say.”

When Will doesn't move quickly enough, the man simply presses his hand against Will’s shoulder. His whole skin boils at the contact, and he sinks to his knees involuntarily as the man lets go of him. The skin on his shoulder is gone, and the muscle in his shoulder is charred. It feels like a phantom pain, it still hurts, but at the same time it doesn't hurt anymore. It confuses Will's senses, and he can’t even bring himself to pay attention to it before the man starts talking again.

“I was trying to give you a few facts, so you could understand what we’re doing, here. The people of the afterlife didn't start out needing to eat other ghosts. That was a need installed later, when the population kept expanding. There are too many people dying, and so we eat the ones who don’t matter, so that we can live. Now, if we don’t, we die from hunger, the same as we did when we were alive. Except this time, we don’t go to any afterlife, we just cease to exist.” He stops again, to let his words sink in. It’s not a long stop before he’s throttling into the next thing.

“You could be at the top of your food chain, Will. All you have to do is accept what’s happening. The afterlife isn't a picnic. There are eleven billion souls here who are all hungry. You’ve got a food source on the living side. Hannibal, I believe his name is. You’re both off limits for now, because you’re newly dead. That status will lift soon, and you need to be able to fight off any other ghosts who come along looking to scavenge from your food source.” He turns full round from his pacing, pointing at Will with determination. “First, you need to learn how to gather souls for yourself.”

He finally pauses long enough to look searchingly at the dead person, before his gaze shifts back to Will. It looks like he’s finished talking at him, at least. When he finally has time to process all of this, he’s probably going to hate it. Even death is hard.

“I want you to reach your hand into this person, like you would reach through a car door, alright?” The man asks. 

He waits long enough for Will to nod and push his uninjured arm into the man’s body, before continuing.

“Do you feel that resistance? That’s your soul touching the other man’s soul. You should feel the most resistance directly over his heart.”

Will shifts his hand through the man’s stomach and into where his heart should be. It feels gross. Not like he’s feeling blood and organs, more like he’s touching the reaper again.

“What next?”

The man smiles at him. “Next, you need to pull the soul out. You have to think for this, Will. You have to solidify your hand just enough that you can pull the soul out of the body. If you solidify your hand to much, you’re going to pull the heart out with it.”

Will tries to think. He knows what the soul looks like, he knows what he’s supposed to pull out. He gives a hard yank, leveraging his entire body into the pull, since he can’t use his other arm. The man’s soul comes right out of his body. So does the upper half of his heart, some of his lung, and a good portion of muscle.

The man-god looks pleased.

“A good first effort,” he praises, “You bypassed the rib cage entirely, which is lucky. The last person I taught this to removed the spine of the man along with several ribs.” He trails off for a second before snapping back to attention. This is lucky, because Will has seriously had enough with holding the soul of another person. 

“The next bit is easy, Will. All you have to do is hold onto the man's soul and concentrate. Feel him connect with your soul, and you’ll have eaten him. Do it.”

Will does. It feels weird. Different than when the reaper had done this for him. It’s slower, and the feeling is better. Holding onto the soul is repellent, but soaking him up feels natural. It feels less diluted, when the soul doesn't go through a medium.

When he opens his eyes again, both the body and the soul have vanished. So has the reaper, so he assumes the reaper took the body back to wherever he found it. When he looks up at the man/god who’s standing in front of him, he catches a glimpse of worry. Worry, and maybe irritation, as well.

“You’re going to fall asleep soon, Will. Except you won’t be, really, you’ll be waking up.” The man sighs. “I’d wanted to explain more to you than I have, but summoning someone who isn’t in the afterlife yet is tricky, even for me. I’m going to send Arvid to you several more times when you go back to the intermediary you’re in now. He’ll explain some things to you, but you’ll figure most of it out through first hand experience.”

Will doesn't want to go. He still has questions that he seriously doubts he'll be able to figure out on his own. But if he doesn't have much time left, he might as well not waste it. “But why didn't I end up in the afterlife? Why am I in this—this intermediary place?”

The man looks at him critically for a second, before moving back to his throne.

“You weren't supposed to die when you did, Will. Your relationship with Hannibal could have gone in many ways. None of them were supposed to end with you figuring out who he was on the day that you did. You’re stuck in limbo. Fate says that you aren't dead, but your body says that you are. Fate and your body will agree eventually, whenever it was that you were supposed to die. Until then, you’re quite stuck on Earth.”

“Earth is a hunting ground, Will,” the man warns him, looking at him seriously, “you can’t seek asylum in the afterlife, as other ghosts can. As soon as your status of newcomer is lifted, ghosts will be after you and your food source; you can not let down your guard.”

The reaper—Arvid, supposedly—reappears a moment later, and the man on the throne straightens up.

“You’re waking up soon, Will. One last thing before you do, as it’s kind of important: your food source, Hannibal. You two hold a rare and intriguing cohabitation. A word of warning, you’d do best not to get too close to him. Good luck.”

Will falls asleep almost instantly, hearing the fading voice of the man on the throne complaining about how much he hated people with complicated lives. His last thought is that he can agree with that. His life sucks.

And then he’s awake, lying on his back in the middle of Hannibal’s house. He can hear the click of a door, most likely signaling that Hannibal’s just arrived home.

His mind flashes back to what the man had said. He’s not entirely sure what ‘too close’ is, much less how he’s supposed to keep from it. If Hannibal is supposed to be his food source—something he’s still not totally sure about—then staying with him should be important. He sets it aside, for now. Maybe after he’s figured everything out for himself, he’ll listen to the random stranger/possible deity’s advice.

He feels better now, at least. Any sickness or headache that he’d had in his ‘dream’ is gone. He doesn't even feel tired anymore, really. He sits up from where he’s lying, and his shoulder is immediately brought to his attention. Where it had bee burnt and seared, it now looked normal again, and he could move it just fine. It still feels like it should hurt, though. The phantom pain hasn't gone away.

He can hear Hannibal walking closer, and his first thought is to go out and greet him and then tell him everything that’s happened. It’s waylaid when Hannibal passes by the dining room, and Will can see what he looks like.

It’s quick, a glance of about less than a second, be he could swear that Hannibal had horns coming out of his head.

“Hannibal?” His voice is stronger. Where he’d been practically mute before, he can now speak easily. It’s a nice change. It also attracts Hannibal’s attention.

Hannibal enters the room and pauses to look over everything. He obviously still can’t see where Will is anymore, but it’s nice to know that going to an entirely different world hasn't screwed up his ability to talk.

“You called, Will?” Hannibal physically looks the same as ever. He hasn't suddenly turned into a demon-looking creature, like everyone else Will meets, but there’s an outline. Above his head, he can see the silhouette of two long, pronged horns.

“Will?”

Will startles out of his long stare at Hannibal’s head.

“Sorry. Uh, how long have I been gone?”

That’s caught Hannibal’s attention, at the very least.

“Not for any discernible length of time. You told me you were going home, and I’ve only now just arrived. Are you feeling alright, Will?” He sounds concerned. Will can’t tell if that’s fake or not.

He wants to talk to Hannibal. Whoever that man was, deity or not, he was eerily similar to him, and it’s leaving him with a weird feeling in his stomach. He wants to tell Hannibal everything; get rid of the other man’s hold on his brain.

Talking to his killer to make himself feel better. It’s about time Will accepts that his priorities are never going to be correct, and just move on.

“I think I just met God.”

Hannibal looks even more intrigued, now. He can’t really blame him, he had an interesting kind of time.

“I will be just a second. I have to refrigerate some important items before they go bad. We can talk as soon as I’m finished.”

Will sits down in a chair to wait. Hannibal doesn't take very long to refrigerate his ‘important items’, before he’s back, sitting opposite of Will’s pulled out chair. He’s back to looking concerned again, but Will can see the traces of curiosity lingering on his face.

“What do you remember happening, after you left the forest that holds Ms. Karr?” Hannibal prompts, giving Will an easy starting point.

He can answer questions. He can do this. Will’s gaze travels back up to Hannibal’s almost-antlers as he begins to speak.

“I felt sick, and dizzy, and like I could fall asleep at any second. I told you I was leaving, and then I blinked and I woke up someplace else.”

He recalls everything that happened, from the reaper collecting the dead body, to the man’s entire explanation. The only thing he leaves out is the warning to stay away from Hannibal. He’ll decode that part himself, after he figures out the rest of this.

Will can tell the moment Hannibal’s interest is peaked. He’s intrigued the entire conversation, but it’s not until he mentions taking the other man’s soul that he looks actively interested. By the time he’s done, Hannibal’s staring at him speculatively. 

“So, this man, who claims to be both God and Satan, collected you from where you are now, some sort of intermediary, and took you to the afterlife in a dream so that he could communicate with you.” He pauses long enough for Will to say something in the affirmative before continuing.

“His whole purpose was basically to explain the merits of eating people’s souls, and that other ghosts will likely come to challenge you for your supplier of those souls. That supplier being me.” When Will confirms again, Hannibal sits back in his chair.

“Regardless of whether this man is who he says he is or not, it sounds like he’s giving you very sound advice.”

“Yes, well his ‘very sound advice’ also seems to be suggesting that I should start getting stronger with whatever abilities I have, and I have no idea how to do that,” He’s answers, and maybe the stress of the day might finally be reaching him again. Talking helps, but it’s not a cure-all.

Hannibal smiles at him, as if he’s missed out on some universal answer and he’s waiting for him to get it. “Will, each time you've consumed a soul, you get stronger. Logic dictates that if you continue to eat, you will continue to gain powers. After that, it’s merely the point of making sure that you practice the powers you gain.”

So basically, Hannibal’s solution to what he should do is let Hannibal kill a bunch of people so that Will can eat their souls. Somehow, he should have expected this. 

Somewhere along the lines of speaking with the possible deity, eating people’s souls stopped sounding so horrifying. He’d stopped questioning whether it was wrong or not the moment the other man had said that it was fine. He feels more conflicted now that he’s back here. Or, it seems like he should feel more conflicted now that he's back with Hannibal. It still doesn't feel wrong, and he _knows_ that it should.

It’s like the feeling of killing Hobbs, except now he’s going to kill a bunch of people, and still feel justified in it. It doesn't connect with any normal human reaction he should be having. Though, according to just about everyone he knows, now, he’s not a normal human.

In that same regard, the possibility of Hannibal killing people for him should affect him. It doesn't. It’s the circle of life, really. People are killed, he eats them, he lives. It’s like animals, except he’s ending their existences instead of just their lives.

There’s a moral dilemma there that he’s not quite ready to face just yet. There’s a more pressing issue at hand, anyways.

“You can’t just go out and kill people, Hannibal. If people start dying every day, the police and the FBI and Jack are all going to know something weird is happening.” He thinks it’s a pretty fair point, considering Hannibal is the only one of them who’s still alive, and thus can still go to jail.

It takes him a second to realize that he just called Hannibal by his first name.

Hannibal looks like amused. Amused, and probably pleased. He’d gone from calling him ‘Dr. Lecter’ to calling him Hannibal, and making his biggest concern the possibility of him getting caught.

Hannibal has the decency not to lord what he’d just said over him.

“It doesn't require a great amount of skill to kill someone and get away with it, Will. I can kill as many people as you need. There are no shortages of possible victims, as your good deity friend has pointed out.”

Will sighs. This is all very vague. He’s going to go out and eat people’s souls because there’s a possibility that at some point other ghosts might come and try to kill him, maybe. But he doesn't know when they will, or how they will, and the only person he has to talk about this is a murderer.

There’s probably a way this could have gone better. It’s too bad for him that he can’t think of it right now.

“So—” he sighs and lowers his head in defeat.

"When do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I thought it would~ Sorry. I've suddenly found myself with two jobs and an summer class, and I don't know how any of that happened. If I do suddenly get slow, it's because I'm busy, not because of the story. Hopefully I shouldn't get too slow, though.
> 
> On an entirely different note, Will's finally getting over it! I can write them being murder pals now! Do you know how happy that makes me? Answer: very happy. Our dear Will just needed a push in the right direction by a possible god. So simple~
> 
> Also, fun fact, SOMEONE NEEDS TO FUCKING HELP WILL GRAHAM. And by that, I obviously mean how he's doing in the show, because he's totally 100% fine in this story. Yes siree. Seriously, though, poor Will can't catch a break. The tv show should just follow my lead and turn Will into a ghost. His life obviously gets better after he dies. Except, you know, not really.


	7. The Circle of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal enjoy some murderous bonding time, and Jack acquires a new friend.

Hannibal isn't the only one sporting strange, almost-invisible, somewhat demonic looking body parts. When they go walking in public, Will can see the shadow of a monster lurking beneath everyone’s skin.

He’s come to correlate misdeeds with how perceptible their additional appearance is.

Hannibal, for instance, sprouts impressive looking antlers, a hollowed face, and readily apparent musculature and girth. His appearance flickers between almost always being readily apparent, and fading to the background so completely that Will sometimes forgets it’s there.

Many strangers that they run into are much less impressive and intimidating looking. They often sport half-broken horns with peeling skin, and are so emaciated it looks like a single push could easily break them in half.

It makes sense, then, given the appearances he sees, that he should connect that the more evil people commit during their lives, the better they do in the afterlife. Hannibal’s form shows a likeness to the man he met during when he fell asleep, who is supposedly at the top of whatever this ghostly food chain is.

This connection goes against almost everything that he knows. What’s the point of behaving as society dictates, if in the end, it’s those who butcher people who end up on top? Are morals something so rudimentary that they’re disregarded completely as soon as people die? That doesn't connect; it doesn't make sense, to Will.

It feels like he’s missing the other half of a puzzle.

He’s not entirely sure what the puzzle is, or what the significance of it is, though, and he has too much to—supposedly—prepare for to linger over the missing half for long.

He and Hannibal have killed five people, in the past nine days. It feels like too much, to Will, but Hannibal is clever with who he picks, and none of them are noticed as far as law enforcement is concerned. Will can see how he’s able to get away with murder so easily. It’s really not difficult if a bit of thought is put into it, as well as being wise enough to take the precaution of picking people who won’t be missed, and hiding the bodies well.

The benefits are palpable. The most obvious is the shadowy appearances that lie inside of people, which Will can now see. He also has much better control over removing people’s souls, and he feels stronger and healthier than he ever has before.

Basically, killing people doesn't seem to have a downside.

That worries him more than he’d care to admit, but it seems to please Hannibal immensely, and that’s not something he can dismiss entirely. It’s a perverse admiration, but he’s grown rather fond of gaining positive reactions from his partner in crime.

They’re together right now, sitting on a bench, which lies on the side of a busy park. An ideal hunting ground, really.

Hannibal’s taken to wearing a Bluetooth when they do this—something he doesn't seem entirely fond of, but it’s preferable to people thinking that he’s talking to himself. They’d both quickly found out that he was the only one who could hear Will. There are several theories on why that is, but none of them are conclusive, and it doesn't really matter in the long run, anyway. The point is that the only person Will can talk to is Hannibal, with the exception of writing someone a letter. He’s more than glad to make use of his only connection to the living world.

“The man sitting on the bench across from us is the worst person here. He’s probably a pedophile, though he may be doing something worse,” Will says, voice conversational.

The man’s prominent otherworldly features give him away. This is almost fun, finding the worst person in an area and pointing him out to Hannibal. Sometimes, he heeds what Will says and they end up killing the person. When that doesn't happen, he still gets to vent about how terrible people are, and that’s almost as good, really.

He hasn't told Hannibal that he can see a monster visage beneath people’s normal appearance, but he doesn't really have to. Hannibal trusted his judgment when he was alive, he had no reason not to now that he was dead.

“He also has a wife and children. We would be remiss in doing such a thing to a family man.”

Will frowns at Hannibal, not that he can see. That’s basically his way of saying that the man is too high profile for them to kill. He’d be reported, and an investigation would begin. If he is a pedophile, there’d probably be a long list of suspects for them to look through, but the point of these murders is to be discreet. It doesn't matter that the murders won’t point back to them, they can’t have too many noticeable murders popping up in the city. It’s unfortunate, but Will lets it slide.

“There’s no one else here that’s anywhere near as bad as him.” The ‘except you’ is left unmentioned. They both know that no one here compares to him at all. Will likes to think that Hannibal feels flattered at his status, in spite of the fact that Will’s the only one who can notice, and he hasn't even said anything about it.

Hannibal’s surveying the area himself, now. They’re both very picky, when it comes to who they’re going to kill. Will prefers to kill people who look like they’re doing the worst for society—he’s choosing to forget about the entire moral conundrum of strength in misdeeds, for now—and Hannibal looks for people who upset his standards of how human beings should act.

Funnily enough, their standards are often joined together. It seems the people Will picks out are generally quite rude, and the ones Hannibal picks are generally people who have done quite a few things wrong in their life.

Sometimes, like today, they don’t really overlap at all.

It’s tedious, but they’re hardly going to kill someone if they can’t agree on who it should be, and the people in Hannibal’s Rolodex are mostly too high profile to disappear without anybody noticing.

Will has to wonder when killing stopped becoming something he felt physically ill over, and is now something he considers kind of a chore. He likes to think that it says something about him that he’s never _enjoyed_ it, at least. Well, he’s never enjoyed it while he was dead.

“The one in blue looks like a good possibility.” Hannibal indicates who he’s talking about with a subtle twist of his hand, and Will looks over at the man he’s pointed to.

Will still sometimes has to laugh at how stupid they sound. Bluetooth or no, it’s very hard to go out into a public place and say something like, “The man dressed in blue looks like someone who won’t be missed, if we choose to murder him.” without drawing suspicion.

The man in question isn't as frail looking as most of the people here. His other appearance shows someone who’s easily done quite a bit wrong in his life. He looks like he’s with a group of people, though. That hardly suggests someone who wouldn't be missed, if he were to suddenly disappear.

The more Will looks, though, the more he can see what Hannibal means. The people around him are clearly uncomfortable, and a couple of the group—Will assumes they’d simply been chatting with other parents at the time—had actually left to stand somewhere else. If Will looks closely, he can see the man’s face twist into some kind of unpleasant expression.

He’s being a public nuisance, and he shows no finesse in whatever it is that he’s doing. Will can see why Hannibal wouldn't like him.

“I can watch him for the day,” Will offers, and it’s the same as saying that yes, he agrees with Hannibal’s choice.

Hannibal’s lips quirk upwards, and he leans back further on the park bench. It’s kind of funny to see, really. Will had never seen Hannibal in so casual a setting when he was still alive.

“I thought we might try something different, this time. Your practice has been interesting, but we haven’t strayed very far from what the standard instruction seems to be,” Hannibal says, looking over towards where Will’s sitting, discreetly, “Have you ever thought of trying your work before the product is finished?”

The wording’s a little awkward, where the problem of talking about dead bodies comes in again, but Will can guess the basic meaning.

He has, actually. Around the third person he’d killed, it had occurred to him that he might be able to kill someone if he pulled their soul out while they were still alive. The idea seemed comparable to some kind of weird torture technique, though, and he’d discarded it.

“That doesn't sound very humane, Dr. Lecter.” He’s been referring to Hannibal by his first name for a few days now, but sometimes the old urge is pushed to the forefront, and he switches back. It seems to be linked with how disapproving or sarcastic he feels. Given that he’s already noticed it, he can only imagine Hannibal has picked up on it, and uses it as some type of gauge on how he feels about certain ideas. That’s what he would do, if he were Hannibal.

“Perhaps. We won’t know if we don’t try, however. It may not lead to a negative outcome at all, and we can always stop if it seems wrong. It was merely an idea.”

Will’s doubtful. Hannibal can’t force him to try it, but the whole idea feels wrong to him. He is curious, though, and if he’s going to learn more about himself, he should be trying new things. It’s just a matter of what constitutes as ‘learning’ and what counts as ‘curious torturing’. There is a difference, but it’s not a very large one.

He won’t dismiss the idea entirely, just yet.

“I’ll think about it.”

Hannibal nods his head. “That’s all I can ask. Have you seen your new friend around recently?”

Will looks over in surprise at Hannibal. They haven’t talked about the reaper in a while. 

“Arvid? Not really. I can see him, sometimes, from the corner of my eye, but he hasn't tried to talk to me at all.” It’s starting to freak Will out, actually. The reaper is always there, but he hasn't made any attempt to talk at all. He’s stopped coming around when Hannibal kills people, but his continued surveillance of what Will does when he’s away from Hannibal is odd. Will figures he’s probably acting on some kind of order, but it’s annoying that those orders don’t include giving Will some answers.

“I think maybe he’s guarding me,” he admits, looking away from Hannibal awkwardly, instead turning back to the blue-clothed creep. It’s an odd thought, having someone guard him like that.

“Really? What gives you that impression?”

“He just watches me, most of the time—and only when I’m away from you,” Will winces at the omission, rushing forward so maybe Hannibal won’t really notice it, “It just feels like he’s under some kind of order, is all.”

He does notice. Will can tell, because he’s doing that subtle smiling thing that means he’s pleased. He still ignores the omission, regardless. “But he’s made no effort to talk to you?”

“No, I only know he’s there because I can feel it when he’s watching me.”

Hannibal hums something under his breath that sounds vaguely like ‘interesting’, but could be another word entirely. He speaks again before Will can ask him what he said.

“Then you’re probably correct. His specification is interesting; it’s a wonder he doesn't choose to do so all the time. What circumstance could he be waiting for, that he needn't worry about you, depending on who you’re with?” In other words, why is he so special that the reaper apparently trusts him enough to keep whatever he’s guarding Will from at bay.

Will snorts. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe whatever he’s supposedly guarding me from doesn't like cannibals.”

“Then you might try spending an evening with Jack, to see if he makes an appearance.” Hannibal sounds amused, and Will frowns at him.

He wonders if Hannibal knows that he’s avoided staying in the same room with Jack alone for extended periods of time, or if it’s just a joke on the forced cannibalism.

“I don’t think I’m that curious. I have no desire to see what my former boss does with his evenings.”

Hannibal smiles at him, before nodding his head in the direction of the man they've been watching.

“Quite so. It appears that business calls, however. I’ll see you in the evening.”

Will looks over at the man, to see that he’s finally started to skulk away from the group of uncomfortable looking people. Will offers a quick goodbye before going to follow him.

Hannibal’s wasted most of his lunch hour watching the park, and he has a patient to see soon. Will’s slightly impressed that he found the time to kill people in between his schedule. He’s lost whole nights of sleep, and appeared none the worse for it. That’s something Will had never learned to do when he was alive.

He follows the man for twenty minutes, before he turns into an alleyway, and then turns again into a house.

The house looks like shit, and the inside is worse. The whole place smells like some kind of drug that Will doesn't recognize, and he wrinkles his nose slightly. The man actually looks pretty good, for the druggie that he apparently is.

Will will have to tell Hannibal. He doesn't eat the organs of drug addicts, which Will can understand. Tainted goods are hardly up to Hannibal’s impeccable standards. It doesn't mean that they can’t kill him, it just changes the plan a little.

Will watches the man the entire afternoon, and well into the evening. No one knocks on the man’s door, and there’s nothing in the house that suggests anyone else lives there. As far as disappearing goes, this guy is probably a safe bet. He waits until around the time Hannibal’s finished for the day before leaving.

When Will appears in Hannibal’s office, he’s taken off guard that Jack’s there, too. He thinks for a second that this might be about the Nkisi Nkondi murders—which are still happening, just not as often as all the other murders they’re committing—but after a minute of silent listening, it’s apparent this is a surprise social visit.

Well, it’s kind of a surprise social visit. Will can’t imagine Jack ever comes to Hannibal for purely social reasons, and he’s not doing so now.

“You want my professional opinion of him before you ask him to join your team. Do you think he has the potential to be unstable?” Hannibal asks, and he sounds disapproving.

It takes Will all of a second to realize where Hannibal’s going with this, and Jack seems to catch on just as quickly. He looks frustrated at the thought.

“He’s not like Will,” he pauses there for a second, and Will has to shift around uncomfortably. Jack blaming himself for his death makes him feel unreasonably guilty. “I don’t need your professional opinion of him, Dr. Lecter. I just want to be sure that, should I need you for a case, you two will be able to work together.”

And there’s Jack trying to be his kind of sympathetic. Will can see the meaning behind that as clearly as Jack could see the meaning behind Hannibal’s words. They’re both teetering around each other precariously, and Will has no doubt that Hannibal will end up pushing Jack off balance at some point in the conversation.

He’s dead, Jack’s replacing him, and he’s trying to be considerate to Hannibal, because he’s replacing someone who Hannibal was obviously quite fond of. Which is all well and good, except for the fact that he’s not really ‘dead’ dead. Even if he were, Hannibal’s the one who killed him, so Jack didn't really need to sneak around the subject.

Not that he knew that.

“You believe that my fondness for Will will lead to me being uncomfortable should I ever need to speak with your new recruit, Mr. Sebastian Eiland.” Hannibal levels a firm look at Jack, who holds his gaze steadily. Just watching them make eye contact makes Will’s eyes sink to the floor. They’re like two alpha dogs getting ready to pounce one each other.

He doesn't have to look up to know that Hannibal will look away first, and that his reason has nothing to do with feeling intimidated by Jack.

“I assure you, Agent Crawford, I won’t hold Sebastian Eiland in contempt for Will’s disappearance and likely death. I am a professional.” They stare at each other again, before Jack nods his head.

Apparently, that’s all he really wanted to know. Will’s not sure why he bothered, beyond feeling as if he owed it to Hannibal to at least give him a warning of the new teammates arrival. If it weren't for their—apparent—mourning over his death, he can’t imagine Jack would have bothered at all.

“Now that that’s settled, would you like to stay for a glass of wine?” Hannibal asks, impeccable etiquette taking over. The air in the room relaxes, and Will allows himself to ease the tension out of his back. Jack and Hannibal are two powerful forces, even while he’s dead, he doesn't want to be anywhere near them when they have tension between them.

Jack shakes his head. He’s still wearing his coat, so Will can only assume that he’d never planned on staying long. Hannibal probably knows this, and is just rushing him out the door with the invitation.

“No thank you, Doctor. Bella and I have a date at our favorite restaurant.” Jack’s face betrays him for only a moment, before it’s back to his usual expression.

Hannibal nods in polite understanding. “I hope you have a good time, there’s nothing like enjoying a well-made meal to lighten people’s hearts.”

When Jack leaves, Hannibal walks back to his desk to sort through papers.

“It appears you’re getting replaced by a promising young man named Sebastian Eiland. It will be interesting, meeting the man who’s trying to fill such a large hole in Jack’s team.”

Will startles—sometimes he forgets how adept Hannibal is at recognizing his presence.

“Do I detect a hint of flattery there?”

Hannibal looks up and smiles, and Will finds himself returning the favor. 

“Not flattery, Will. I’m simply stating a fact. You were an incredible asset to the FBI, I don’t envy the man who feels he has to match your level of ability.”

There is flattery there, Will can feel it. “All he really needs is to be a half-decent poet, or have a phone that has auto-correct. I would have found out who you were a long time ago if my phone had given me that last push by changing your name to ‘cannibal’.”

Hannibal laughs, and Will can feel his smile widen.

“Ah yes. Years of meticulous planning all gone to waste because I had the unfortunate luck to have a name that rhymes with my diet. I’m lucky it was a dream of yours that figured me out, as opposed to dumb luck and a faulty phone.”

They’re both silent for a moment. His thoughts could easily stray to his murder, and he deliberately derails that train of thought. Instead, he wonders if he would have figured it out, had he been the texting sort. It’s the kind of thing that probably would have jolted him just enough to realize, so the idea isn't actually that far fetched.

He doubts anyone else would connect the dots like that, though. It’s too ridiculous a way for anyone to take it seriously, though he can maybe imagine Katz thinking it up and teasing Hannibal for it.

Hannibal changes the subject after the silence stretches on for too long. 

“What did you find out about our blue man?”

Will wants to hit himself for not looking at the man’s mail, so that he could find a name to call him by. Well, it’s too late now.

“He’s a drug addict,” Will smirks at the disgust on Hannibal’s face, “he lives alone, and it doesn't look like he’s got many friends. He could drop off the face of the earth and nobody would notice.”

In spite of the man’s obvious flaw, Hannibal doesn't object to killing him—just like Will knew he wouldn't—but he’s obviously less enthused about going out now. It doesn't stop him from preparing.

They drive over to his house first, to collect supplies, before Will gives directions to the man’s home. The entire neighborhood is downtrodden, so Hannibal ends up parking his car more than a mile away—the last thing he needs is having to report his car being stolen so close to a murder victim—and walk to the man’s house.

Will isn't entirely certain some nosy neighbor didn't see Hannibal, but he can’t imagine anyone will care enough to report anything suspicious. They go directly to the man’s front door, and Hannibal knocks several times before waiting for an answer.

The man only opens the door a crack before he’s being pushed back and Hannibal’s covering his face with an already prepared chloroform rag. The man drops easily, and they hardly make any sound at all during the quick exchange.

The man is tied up and gagged several minutes later, and they both wait patiently for the man to wake up. The waiting is something Will has quickly gotten used to.

They don’t have to wait too long before the man starts to wake up, though. He has about a minute of falling in an out of consciousness before he’s aware enough to look around him.

The chloroform’s obviously left him weak, though, because he doesn't do much by way of struggling.

Hannibal looks over to the chair Will’s sitting at. “So would you like to try your hand at live soul removal or should I start off as we normally do?”

The man looks confused at both the question and the fact that his captor is talking to an empty chair, and Will wants to both smile and grimace at the predicament the man is in. Instead, he ignores him completely and considers the question.

They’ll probably end up trying this eventually, so there’s really no reason he shouldn't say yes. If he does end up hurting the guy, at least he’s awake now, so he can stop if the man looks like he’s in pain.

“I’ll try.” He sounds unsure, even to his own ears, but Hannibal is smiling reassuringly at him, and it’s enough to make him square his shoulders and kneel next to the guy.

He sticks his hand in the man’s chest the same way he did to the dead people that he’s taken souls from. He keeps the same thoughts in mind, the same procedure in place, as he slowly solidifies his hand to what it needs to be to remove souls—he’s gotten much better at not taking organs out with him—he gives a hesitant tug.

The man screams in pain and does a full body jerk. The pain is apparently enough to get rid of the lingering effects of the chloroform, because he does it with enough strength that he breaks the table leg he’s tied to, and ends up falling on his back.

It’s enough to unbalance Will, and he falls onto the man. And then he doesn't stop. It feels like he’s absorbing the man’s soul, but he knows he’s not because he can’t do that until the soul is out of the person’s body—they've tried that one, before.

The whole feeling loses it’s pleasantness and starts feeling downright uncomfortable, and by the time the feeling passes, he feels sick and disorientated again. He thinks for a second that he might have randomly entered back into the afterlife, but he knows that’s not right because Hannibal is leaning over him.

Actually, Hannibal is downright straddling him, and he’s got one hand around Will’s neck, and the other around his wrists, which are being held above his head. Will blinks in confusion for a second before he lurches backwards, trying to get out from under him. It takes him a second longer to realize that the Hannibal shouldn't be able to touch him at all, and it pauses his squirming.

Hannibal uses his pause to tie his hands and feet together, and Will looks down at his fleshy hands and feet in surprise.

“Shit, Hannibal, what are you doing?” Normally he doesn't like to swear around Hannibal, but he’s honestly confused and why is he tying him up, and how is he able to, and _what the fuck is going on?_

Hannibal pauses his knotting for a second to look him in the eye, and he looks confused too. Unlike all the other times Will sees that expression, it doesn't melt away a second later.

“Will?”

“Can you see me?”

Hannibal stares at him for a second longer, before hauling him to his feet and turning him towards a mirror that’s across the room.

“I can see the man who we were recently about to kill.” He still sounds confused, and yeah, Will can agree with that because he’s seeing exactly what Hannibal’s seeing and he can’t figure out why. He’s also unbearably uncomfortable.

“Can you untie me?”

Hannibal pushes him so that he’s sitting back on the floor, before doing as he says. His movements seem cautious, though, like he’s waiting for Will to turn back into the man and he’s getting ready to defend himself. Will snorts.

“I don’t feel the guy in here with me; you don’t have to worry about him trying to make a run for it.”

Hannibal looks at him for a moment before nodding his head and working faster. When he’s finally untied and able to move, he starts slow. He doesn't remember his own body feeling this uncomfortable and unwieldy. Now he just feels trapped and confined, like he’s wearing clothes that are way too small for him.

When he tries to stand up, Hannibal helps him. He feels a slight thrill now that he has time to recognize actual human physical contact. His feeling of touch is heightened dramatically now that he’s in a body again.

His sense of smell hasn't diminished in the slightest from when he was outside the man, though, and he wrinkles his nose at his own scent. This man really needs a shower.

“Go figure that when I find out I can do this, I end up in the body of a drug user. I think I can feel his liver failing.”

Hannibal’s smiles at that, and Will takes the opportunity to smile back. He’s missed this, he’s missed people being able to see him. He’s also really missed the touching, way more than he’d thought he would.

It feels like something empty inside him has been filled again, and he wants to luxuriate in the feel of it. He blames his disorientation entirely for what he asks next.

“Can I hug you?”

The fact that he’s clearly out of his mind right now is also to blame for the fact that he doesn't wait for an answer. He moves in to wrap his arms around Hannibal before he can say anything, and his newly acquired body thrums at the contact. He’s also resolved not to think about this ever again after they’re done, especially when Hannibal finally gives in and wraps his arms around him.

The happy, stupid sigh that he makes didn't actually happen, and he didn't relax against him, and he most certainly didn't smell Hannibal’s clothes. They also didn't stay in this position for more than two minutes, and Will obviously wasn't counting the seconds. As soon as he lets go, this never happened at all. But it’s happening now and he’s never been happier for human contact.

When he can finally bring himself to let go, his fleshy face is burning, and he has to look away from Hannibal entirely.

He hasn't had any positive physical contact of any kind for two months, and he’d gotten carried away. At least when he was alive, he’d had his dogs to pet, and he could feel himself in his own skin. The best he got when he was dead was Arvid touching him, and the possible God burning his shoulder. Neither of those counted as anything other than abysmal, and he’d been a bit desperate. He didn't need to see Hannibal’s reaction to that desperation.

“Sorry.” He wonders if he can sink out of this body and crawl into a hole to die again.

“You hardly need to apologize, Will. It’s natural that after so long without, you would want to make physical contact with another human being, even when you had no desire to do so when you were previously alive.” Hannibal rests a hand on Will’s shoulder, and he leans into it without thinking.

This is all incredibly awkward, but at least the shoulder touch isn't a terrible invasion of privacy, like he’d done.

And at least Hannibal is polite enough not to be offended by it. He probably smells like drugs and body odor, though, now that he’d been held by so long by this man’s body.

Will wished everyone could be like Hannibal. He can’t imagine feeling uncomfortable if he inhabited his body.

Will has to physically step back—removing Hannibal’s hand in the process—to draw himself away from where his thoughts were going. This whole thing is addling his brain, and seriously? Wishing everyone was like Hannibal is hardly the thought of a sane man.

He’s about to say something—another apology, probably, he can’t think clearly, so anything could have poured out of his mouth at this point—when pain rushes through his head, and then flows all throughout his new body.

Where before he’d felt cramped, it now feels like he’s physically fighting to stay inside the man’s body, and after a sharp cry, he could feel himself being expelled and pushed onto the floor.

He has to take a second to gather himself, and by the time he stands back up, he’s looking at a thoroughly freaked out man.

“If you can’t already tell, I’m not in him anymore,” he warns, rubbing at his own head in irritation. It’s probably fair he gives Hannibal a heads up, though, because the man seriously looks like he’s stuck between charging at Hannibal, and running out the back door.

“I’d gathered that, but thank you for the warning, Will.”

The man lets out some kind of hysterical gibbering noise that catches both of their attention, before he’s finally able to form a coherent sentence.

“What the fucking hell are you? You and your weird voodoo magic can stay the fuck away from me, man, that’s fucked up shit I ain't dealing with!” Well, he can kind of form a coherent sentence.

Hannibal looks fairly irritated with the man’s yelling, and he quickly steps forward to breaks the man’s neck before the guy can even turn around fully to try to run away.

Will lets out a shaky sigh and sinks to his knees.

“I think I’m ready to go home, now.” He really, really feels like lying down next to his dogs, even though he won’t be able to feel them. He can’t sleep, but he desperately needs a few hours to relax.

“Allow me to clean up this mess first, and then we can go.”

Will does. He doesn't feel like vanishing to Hannibal’s house. He wants to look out the window as the scenery passes by the window. He wants a bit of normal, so he’ll wait for Hannibal to dispose of the dead body, and then he can pretend that his unlife isn't falling to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reasons for making them hug: 1. I wanted to, 2. I was able to, 3. I really have no excuse, I just like Hannibal/Will hugging, I’m sorry! …XD No I’m not, that’s a lie. I will never apologize for fluff! Especially awkward!Will fluff. And please, we all know Hannibal liked it, even if Will did smell like drugs and grossness.
> 
> And seriously, sometimes I write things and then have to laugh for hours at the obvious innuendo. Will, bby, don’t you mean you’d like to have Hannibal in you, not the other way around? (Okay, I’ll stop now.)
> 
> Oh, I liked this chapter. And I like the next chapter that I'm in the middle of writing, and I just like Will and Hannibal in general. I'm also desperately trying not to write another kink meme prompt, even though I really want to. They're very fun to do. And aodhadlkjla! The season finale is Thursday! My poor brain is going to die.
> 
> Until next time!


	8. Body Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has fun at Will’s expense, Will finally meets a fellow ghost, and fate intervenes once again.

The spirit is a very flexible thing. This became apparent almost immediately after Will and Hannibal began testing how well he could fit into different bodies.

The size of the person didn't matter—he didn't feel more confined in a man who was a foot shorter than he was, just like he didn't have breathing room when he was in a man bigger than him. No, the confined feeling came from the problem of two people trying to inhabit the same body.

The person he’s in now, for instance, seems to have the constitution of an eight year old. He can only barely feel the man fighting for his body back, in the form of a fleeting headache behind his eyes. All he has to do is concentrate on _staying_ , and the man can’t do much to stop him.

“How do you feel?” Hannibal asks from across the room, and it’s enough to startle Will into looking at him.

His eyes connect with Hannibal’s automatically, as he’d done when he was without a body, before he remembers that Hannibal can see him now. He settles instead on looking somewhere in the vicinity of his right shoulder. Eye contact is so different when the other person can see him. It’s filled with so much more intent, so much personal thought, that Will can’t handle it. Not that he’d been particularly fond of eye contact after death, either.

The other man’s spirit flickers harder in his head. He makes a deliberate effort to push away the uneasiness he feels, and the man is pushed back in place again.

“Better,” he admits, standing up to ‘break in’ the new body. Something feels off about the man, though. And it’s not just his abysmal fortitude.

“Is he sick?”

“Dying, actually,” Hannibal supplies, “He was recently diagnosed with liver cancer. He cleans up quite well, given his circumstance.”

Will walks over to a mirror so he can look at himself. He doesn't look like he’s dying—if it weren't for the jaundice, he probably wouldn't have been able to tell at all. The fact that the man’s body is dying could explain how little fight he has, though. There’s not much to fight for when death is around the corner.

He feels good, in spite of how this body is doing. He turns to offer a hesitant smile at Hannibal.

“Could we go for a walk?” He asks, and he’s immediately irritated by how timid he sounds. It’s not the man’s voice, it’s his own flightiness that’s dictating it. He wants to sound sure of himself; he wants to make a command—that they _are_ going to go for a walk right now. But he’s back in a real body; he’s confined again. It’s intimidating enough that he has to fall back into a role of subservience and asking for permission, one that he previously didn't have to this extent.

Hannibal is studying him. He can tell by the way his eyes graze over him, and it probably has less to do with his meekness, and more to do with how likely it is that Will might lose control and get expelled from this body in a place where the man might then be able to run away.

He must find the odds in his favor, because he nods and heads to the door.

Will follows after him, close enough that he can sometimes brush against Hannibal’s hand when they exit the house. It’s almost a constant graze when they’re outside, walking side-by-side. He doesn't mean to, really. He’s stuck between wanting no physical contact at all—willing himself to shrink away and not acknowledge the existence of any living person—and deliberately going out of his way to feel the physical anchor that other people can act as now. His own indecision leaves him subconsciously moving towards the only stable person he can find.

Hannibal reciprocates the gesture, which makes Will feel marginally better. He makes his hand readily available, and he’s as much an instigator in their contact as Will is. There’s a certain amount of comfort in knowing that Hannibal understands him so well, even when they don’t speak to each other. Of course, the comfort is also tainted by how uncomfortable Will is with his entire situation. He feels good around Hannibal, and his mind still resists the concept—it’s ludicrous that he can feel comfortable around a murderer.

It’s nice outside. It’s a bright, Sunday afternoon, and Hannibal doesn't have any patients to see. Plus, the man he’s currently residing in—another James, he thinks—lives out near a forested area. It’s similar enough to his old house that it’s easy to forget a few of his problems, and just bask in the sunlight, in a way he hasn't been able to without a body.

“There’s a path into the woods half a mile from here. I could make lunch and we could take a hike, if you wish to get some actual exercise.”

Will looks over at Hannibal, only to accidentally meet his eyes again. He looks away awkwardly, instead turning to look around him. They aren't too far from the house, it would be easy to go back, let Hannibal prepare a lunch, and then make a day out of exploring the woods. It’s undeniably tempting. Plus, they’d be eating from this guy’s fridge, so he wouldn't have to feel guilty over eating people for lunch.

Eventually, he nods his head. They both turn back towards the house, but Will doesn't follow him inside. He’ll revel in the fresh air while Hannibal finds something that’s up to his culinary tastes in the man’s house.

Hannibal comes out a short time later looking reasonably pleased, with a satchel that Will assumes has several different containers of food. A man with liver cancer probably has relatively fresh, healthy food in his house—especially one that looks as good as this guy does—so he’s probably happy with the food he could put together.

Will’s already looking forward to eating, actually. He hasn't done that in a long time. At least, not with actual food that has an actual taste and texture.

They begin walking in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, so far as Will can tell. He’s trailing slightly behind Hannibal, keeping far enough away that they aren’t touching anymore, and they’re both walking at a steady pace. It’s not until they've reached the start of the path that Hannibal speaks.

“How much can you feel while inside another person’s body?”

“As much as I could when I was still alive. I can’t see or hear as well when I’m inside someone, though.” He has better perception overall when he’s free from the containment that being inside someone provides. It’s a fair trade, given the touch and taste senses that he’s given back.

“Can you feel in the way a living person does, or do the nerve endings feel disconnected from yourself?” Hannibal asks, and there’s a suspicious amount of open-endedness to the question that puts Will on edge.

He’s hinting at something, and Will isn't quite certain what it is yet.

“I can recognize that this isn't my original body—” and it’s true, he’s never felt as comfortable in someone else’s body as he had when he was alive, and even then he hadn't felt particularly comfortable, “but I can also feel everything that happens to the body I’m in. It’s like, it’s like when I go into a serial killer’s head. While I’m in the body, I feel everything, but once I leave I can recognize that it wasn't really me feeling it, even though I remember it.”

It’s a poor analogy, but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances. Hannibal can understand what he’s saying, if his expression is anything to go by. He still looks curious about something, but he changes the subject before Will can ask why he’s so interested.

“If you do choose to continue inhabiting somebody else’s body, we’ll have to make arrangements for what’s to be done should you leave it, by choice or by expulsion.”

It’s a fair point, especially with this man’s body. A man who’s dying, who has so little fight in him, is the ideal body to steal. It still wracks him with guilt, but it’s manageable guilt at this point.

“You could handcuff me to a bed.”

Hannibal stops walking entirely to turn and look at him with a raised eyebrow, and Will has to go over what he just said to realize how odd that sounded. He can feel blood rush to his face, and he gapes for a second, totally lost.

“That’s, I didn't mean it like _that_. I meant that if I wanted to leave the body, one of us could handcuff him so he couldn't esc—how could you even think that?” He sounds mortified and maybe a little bit defensive but this whole situation is just—he’s not even sure how this happened.

Hannibal is smiling at him, though, and Will scowls at the amusement he’s deriving from Will’s embarrassment.

“I know what you meant, Will. I was simply caught off guard at the abruptness of your statement.” He continues walking after looking over him for several seconds, and Will hesitates before following after him.

‘Knew what he meant’ be damned. Hannibal had probably known this conversation would lead them there.

“It’s a possibility,” Hannibal finally answers, “I don’t relish the idea of keeping someone locked away in my own home. Nor am I a fan of keeping Mr. Durham’s body so far away that it’s a chore to tie him up.”

There’s also the possibility that Will could just continue staying in this body indefinitely, but it’s an unappealing one. He likes being able to feel again, but he’s still suffocating, even without having to fight a particularly hard battle with James Durham over it. Plus, he’s not entirely sure his inability to go to sleep has faded simply because he’s inhabiting a person now. He’d probably destroy Mr. Durham’s—he finally knows his last name now, at least—body because he wore it out.

“What about that cabin that my body is at?”

Hannibal looks like he’s considering the idea. Will has no idea how far away that cabin really is—the only way he’s ever traveled there was by vanishing and reappearing—but it seems like a better place than most.

“It will have to do for now, I suppose.” Hannibal smiles briefly at him, and Will has to remind himself several times that they’re talking about tying a dying person up, not having a casual conversation. Sometimes it’s easy to forget what’s really happening with Hannibal.

They walk for two more hours before stopping to eat. Will, in spite of his best efforts to remember how bad everything he’s doing is, enjoys himself. It’s been a while since he’s honestly been able to exert himself. The only thing missing is his dogs.

Lunch is what he’s really looking forward to. He doesn't feel very hungry when they sit down to eat, it’s the taste he’s anticipating.

When Hannibal passes him his own container of food he thanks him, but he doesn't ask what’s in it. Logically, he knows that Hannibal prepared this in James Durham’s kitchen, so he’s not eating somebody on accident. Well, not unless James was also a cannibal, which he doubts. But there’s still that underlying possibility, that lingering thought of everything that Hannibal fed him when he was alive, and it’s enough that he doesn't have it in him to ask anymore.

“It’s good,” he compliment, after taking his first bite. Hannibal smiles at him before grabbing his own container.

“It’s my pleasure. It’s been a while since I made something suited for long hours in the heat.” He opened up his container before amending, “Though ‘made’ perhaps isn't the correct word. ‘Prepared’ is more like it. Mr. James Durham keeps a well-prepared kitchen.”

And, for whatever reason Hannibal felt James deserved being used as a puppet by him, that probably earned him a module more respect than Hannibal had previously given him. Not enough to matter, unfortunately for James.

“He’s a dying man. It figures that he’d want as much control over his life as he could get, even if he couldn't change the ultimate outcome.” Will can understand that.

Hannibal looks at him speculatively for a moment before nodding his head in agreement.

“How do you feel, Will?”

The question takes him off guard, and he glances at Hannibal’s face for a second before shifting his eyes downward again. He thinks about it, tries to find a good summation of how he feels, but mostly thinks over what way Hannibal means it.

“Fine?” He raises his voice at the end in question, like he’s asking Hannibal if that’s the right answer. It irritates him, some, that he doesn't know how to answer him properly.

“Are you feeling any physical pain from the trek up here? Any soreness or muscle strain?” Hannibal asks, and the further he questions, the more Will feels like he’s missing something.

Still, he answers honestly. “No, I feel fine. Good, in fact.” When all he gets in reply is silence, he conjures up the will to look Hannibal in the eye, staring him dead in the face. “Why?”

“James Durham is on medication for pain caused by his cancer. Extraneous activity like this would cause him noticeable discomfort, yet you do not seem to feel any pain. So far, the only thing you've noticed is delight in skin to skin contact—” Will fights off another blush at that, which Hannibal politely ignores, “and a yearning for vigorous activity. Plus, you've had a cut on your left hip for some time now that you haven’t taken any notice of.”

Will looks down at himself in surprise. Now that he’s looking, he can see the stain of blood on his pants. It’s nothing severe, but it’s something he should have noticed. It takes him a second after this realization to comprehend exactly what Hannibal’s words mean.

“You knew before we went on a hike that I could start to experience at least some form of pain, and you didn't say anything?” He accuses, and never mind the cut that he failed to mention to Will, not telling him about possible excruciating pain he could experience has him more than a little angry.

Hannibal doesn't look like he feels particularly threatened. Or even chastised, for that matter. “I was curious to the extent of your connection to a body that isn't your own. If you had been pushed into feeling too severe a pain, you could have left the body and that would be that. It wasn't my intention to cause you any permanent harm.”

Sometimes, his lack of conscience is abundantly clear in ways other than his total neutrality to killing people. Will lets out a huff of indignation before allowing his anger to slip. He still gives Hannibal’s general direction a dirty look, though.

“So what? I can feel all the pleasure and none of the pain? That’s a new one,” he says, and he’s being sarcastic, but Hannibal is looking at him with that speculative look again; the one that suggests he’s mulling over something that Will will probably either find very impressive and interesting, or absolutely revolting and sick.

“May I try something, Will?”

“That depends on what you want to try.” He’s immediately on guard. He’s half-expecting Hannibal to ask if he can break his thumb, or something similar, to see his pain threshold.

“I’d like to give you a massage.”

He has to look over at Hannibal in surprise at that, and he almost drops his food with how caught of guard he is. Hannibal takes in his expression and smiles.

“Regardless of the fact you can’t feel pain, the body you reside in still expresses the physical symptoms. I’m simply wondering if you can feel the benefits of pain relief, given that you can’t feel the pain in the first place.”

So if he can’t feel pain in the first place, can he still feel pain go away?

“Can’t I just take an aspirin, and see if that makes me feel better?”

“You can experiment, certainly,” Hannibal says, “but taking medication and receiving a massage are two different types of pain management.”

Hannibal isn't going to force him. If he says no, he won’t make a big deal of it; he’ll just nod and back off. Will knows this, knows that saying no isn't going to make things weird between them—and that saying yes to a massage might—but he’s a little curious too. So he nods.

“Excellent.” Hannibal smiles at him. “We can begin when we get back to the house.”

“Could we just do it now?” He feels weird just asking it, but if they have another two-hour walk ahead of them, he knows he’s going to psych himself out. He’ll be able to think of every single reason this is a bad idea, then he’d change his mind and back out, and he’d like to go through with his decision. Even if it is just for the sake of not second-guessing himself.

If Hannibal is surprised by his request, he doesn't show it—but then, he hardly showed any surprise at all when Will came back as a ghost. This hardly compares in shock value.

“Wherever you feel most comfortable, though I doubt the ground will make for a comfortable resting place,” Hannibal says, before lifting his own container of food, “We’ll finish eating and then I will start.”

“Uh, no. I mean—could we just do it immediately?”

This time Hannibal looks at him critically, as if he’s just made a faux pas that he has to aggressively ignore his natural reaction to. And he supposes that maybe he has by interrupting a meal in order for Hannibal to give him a massage, but he’s not really that hungry and this is all kind of overwhelming.

Being in a body isn't very nice anymore. There were certain perks to not being visible. Or tangible, for that matter.

“Of course, Will. If you could take off your jacket and lie on your stomach, I’ll begin.”

He does, and he spreads the jacket out so that he won’t be resting his head on grass and dirt. He doesn't mind getting dirty, but taking in a mouthful of earth is something he’d rather avoid.

When he’s finally relaxed enough, Hannibal moves over to him and straddles his hips. He jolts, just for a second, at Hannibal’s proximity. His whole body tenses up at the contact. He doesn't loosen up even when Hannibal’s hands begin moving along his back.

“You need to relax if you want to see if this will be effective, Will,” Hannibal chastises, and Will loosens up on command.

It’s difficult, though. Having a killer— _his_ killer—on top of him, where he can’t see him or put up much of a fight goes against all of his instincts. He’s vulnerable and he has to trust Hannibal if this is going to work. Which is difficult.

He tries to imagine what’s going through Hannibal’s mind. He’s on top of someone that had been dead to him two months ago, only to be brought back because ‘fate’—or whatever other supernatural process that was responsible for this—decided he wasn't ready to die yet.

He killed him, he has the power to do it again, and still his prey is allowing him the opportunity. He can kill him again, if he wishes to follow through. It’s a heady feeling of power. Will lets out a groan, brought forth both by the thought, and the fingers which are expertly maneuvering his back.

To lose him, and then have him be brought right back under his control—to have someone who is so extraordinary, so far beyond what he’d originally thought he could amount to, under his control, is exhilarating. He could do anything. He could flip Will over, strangle the life out of him. He probably wouldn't even be surprised. Would he fight? Would he struggle with the hands around his neck? Is his survival instinct installed once more, even thought he doesn't currently own the body he’s in?

It’s tempting. It’s so tempting to act, to take this man, who he’s killed, and do so over, and over, and over again. Because now he knows. Now he knows that he’ll always come back. His Will, who died for him, and who lives after death for him. It would be so easy to just—

“Stop!” Will jerks back, away from the man over top of him. “Stop, stop, stop! Stop, just get away please!” He’s repeated it one too many times. He can see Hannibal in front of him, he knows that he doesn't have to ask him to stop anymore, but he can’t stop still saying it.

He isn't really talking to Hannibal anyway. He’s talking to himself, talking to where his own mind lead him. Was he channeling Hannibal, or were those his own thoughts?

He sits up, brings his knees to his chest and brushes over himself hectically, as if he actually cared about the few particles of dirt that got on him from this.

“Will? Will, are you okay?”

Hannibal isn't approaching him, he’s grateful to notice. He’s not attempting to touch him, or do anything besides draw Will’s attention. He doesn't need an anchor now, he needs a compass. He needs to know how to direct himself.

He can hear his own heart beating in his ears, he can feel it thump in his head, and he can’t draw enough air into his lungs. And, most importantly, he can’t help but question how _true_ that was. Would he really keep coming back to Hannibal if he killed him again? Would he stay there, just to be killed over and over, if that’s what Hannibal chose to do to him?

He can’t stop thinking about it, but he can’t bring himself to look for an answer to the question. He doesn't want to know how crazy he is, that he might actually consider that. He doesn't want to contemplate how ‘himself’ he was, during that analysis. Because he might not have been channeling. Not one hundred percent, at least. Part of him could really think that.

He stays like that for at least several minutes, until he’s finally calmed down enough to look around him. Hannibal is still standing there, looking at Will with some mixture of wariness and curiosity.

He’s about to stand up, apologize for freaking out, when he becomes uncomfortably aware of his predicament. He’s _hard_. It’s almost enough to send him spiraling again, because he had to be channeling Hannibal a little bit. There’s no way that he gets off on thinking about his own death, that’s not something he’d do.

He looks down at Hannibal before he can stop himself, as if that would be evidence that he drew this particular reaction from him and not his own mind. He’s not sure whether he’s grateful or disappointed that he doesn't see anything noticeable.

Hannibal catches him at it, though. He can tell, even without looking at Hannibal’s eyes flicker down to where his legs are hiding his half-hard erection, that Hannibal knows. The noise he makes in the back of his throat is more than enough.

“I see. You don’t need to be embarrassed for a natural physical reaction, Will. Many people experience arousal at some point during the process.”

Well yes, and he might only be slightly embarrassed if that were the case. He could feel the effects of the massage, now that he’s thinking clearly. He can feel the lightness and the benefit of Hannibal’s hands, even with how short a time he’d done it. It would figure that Hannibal is good at massages, along with everything else.

His lack of reaction must have tipped him off somehow, because Hannibal sits in front of him, intrigue back on his face.

“Unless it was something else that made you respond. What were you thinking about, during the massage?”

And there goes another blush. It must just be this body, because he wasn't much of a blusher in his original one. Maybe it was just this body that got weird boners over being killed, then.

“I’d actually rather not talk about it, Doctor,” he says, and he can see Hannibal’s disapproving stare without looking him in the face.

“Will, this is obviously something that’s having an effect on you. I won’t judge you for anything you say, my goal is simply to make sure you don’t have another thing to overanalyze while you lie awake at night.”

And there’s his therapist out to play again. Go figure, he calls him doctor and Hannibal immediately steps into the role. He knows that Hannibal won’t judge him—can’t judge him, really. He still knows that. Everything he says is filed away somewhere in Hannibal’s brain to be used at another time; any immoral thought or weird perverted image his mind comes up with is just another part of Will that Hannibal will accept into himself.

That doesn't change the fact that he doesn't want Hannibal to know this. He doesn't want this one fact shared about him, even if it isn't really his thought in the first place.

Or, actually, on that train of thought he might not mind telling Hannibal. It holds a certain disconnected intrigue, wondering how close his thoughts were to what Hannibal was actually feeling while he was on top of him.

“What were you thinking? When you were on top of me?” He asks him, and Hannibal fixes him with a steady look.

“It was an experiment, Will. My mind was on how you were reacting to it.”

Will snorts and shakes his head. “No, no that’s not what you were thinking,” he looks Hannibal straight in the eye, trying his best to express how serious he is before continuing, “We’re a little passed concealed truths now, Hannibal. I’ll be as open, and as honest as you want, but you need to return the favor. What was the real Hannibal Lecter thinking, while he gave his favorite toy a massage?”

He can see it; he can see the exact moment Hannibal lets himself relax into his natural face. He changes. Will can still see him, he can still see his human face, but it’s trapped behind the prominent face of the creature that lurks under his skin. He’s talking to the true Hannibal now, and his true face comes out.

“I was thinking about how easy it was to get you to lie beneath my hands of your own free will. You’re a very compliant person, Will, when you’re with me. So ready to fight against everyone’s thoughts on you, while you so easily give in to my will.”

Hannibal stops and leans in closer, drawing Will nearer as he does. They’re face to face, leaning forward like two animals ready to pounce. Only one of them would act on it, and Will knows that Hannibal won’t.

“I was thinking how easily I could kill you again, if I chose to,” Hannibal finishes, eyes flickering over Will’s face. Marveling over him, probably. Nothing he just said was an insult; it was more like praise, honestly.

“Now tell me, Will. What were you thinking?”

Will doesn't move, doesn't let his eyes stray away from Hannibal’s face. His voice is quiet and anxious to get out because yes—he understands this. “I was thinking like you.”

Hannibal smirks at him. His eyes flicker down to where his pants are tented more noticeably than they were before, before looking back into Will’s eyes.

All at once, he moves backwards and gets to his feet, offering Will a hand.

“I think it’s time we head back to James Durham’s house. We have a long drive ahead of us.”

And just like that, the tension is broken. Will’s back inside James Durham’s body, and now he’s got to take a two hour trek through the woods with a hard on. In spite of that, he feels good.

***

Will still feels wired up.

The trek back to the James Durham’s house, driving over to Hannibal’s house to eat, and then another long drive to pick up an extra passenger, and he still feels like he’s full of unreleased energy. He wants something to do with himself.

He thinks, maybe, that Hannibal planned this. Picking up another victim of the Nkisi Nkondi murders, with Will still high off of thinking like him, would be exactly the kind of thing that could make him lose control and have some fun with a person.

Will knows that’s probably what’s going on, but it doesn't stop him from looking forward to it. He’s not jittery; he isn't jumping or tapping nervously in his seat. He doesn't need to, not while he’s imagining all the things he could do once they arrive at their destination. He’s expending more than enough energy just thinking about all the ways he could reenact Hannibal’s murders.

When they slow down and pull to a stop in front of the same forest the last Nkisi murder had happened in, Will doesn't allow the confusion to enter his mind. He just tries, a little bit, to think why Hannibal would do this. Why go back to a crime scene that hasn't been noticed yet? And then the answer comes, clear as day, and Will doesn't even need to ask.

He’s sure Hannibal is smiling at him when he gets out of the car and immediately goes to collect the man Hannibal picked out. Hannibal follows after him, supplies in hand. He walks to the opening where they’d last entered into the forest, and stops at one of the sturdier looking trees before turning back to Hannibal.

He may be leading, right now, but Hannibal is still the conductor of this event.

Hannibal nods to him, and they both get to work hanging the man up. They don’t have to wait for him to wake up, this time. Will’s sure he will, when he feels the pain—Hannibal doesn't drug them, so he should be perfectly capable of coming back to awareness. It’s usually only for the benefit of communication that they wait.

They need a clear-headed victim so that he can form a semi coherent sentence by the time Hannibal’s done with them. It was useful when Hannibal needed to talk to him through someone else, but he doesn't need to do that anymore.

He’s about to take the hammer and nail that Hannibal presents him, when something else catches his eye. Hannibal picks up his hesitation easily, and turns to where he’s looking.

Will knows he won’t see anything. They’re so connected—especially at this moment—but Hannibal has never been able to see the undead, and the thing he’s looking at clearly fits into that category.

The thing—he’s not sure if it’s a man or a woman—is walking towards them. The fact that he hasn't just vanished and appeared before them tells Will something about his confidence, but he’s clearly moving with purpose.

The man’s words from the afterlife echo in his head, and he turns to look at Hannibal. He’s still not totally in his own head, he knows that, but maybe a little bit of Hannibal is what he needs to talk with another ghost.

“We have a visitor. I think I might talk to him before he gets any closer.”

Hannibal understands immediately, and he steps aside for Will to pass by him. He isn't going anywhere, Will knows. He’s going to stay and watch a one-sided conversation. Will straightens his shoulders and walks up to meet the ghost that’s approaching.

“Should I assume this means Hannibal and I are no longer off limits?” He asks, and the ghost is looking over him with something between uncertainty and arrogance.

He doesn't answer Will’s question. 

“Aren't you a little young to be dressing up in human flesh?” The voice is feminine, and Will looks at her quizzically.

“That’s not really any of your business.”

He’s posturing, he realizes. His whole form screams ‘dominance’ in the way that Hannibal and Jack look at each other. He has to fight not to immediately back down once he recognizes what he’s doing. The only time he’s even begun to do this was with Freddie, and that had hardly ended well. But this is an entirely different situation, and backing down hardly seems like it would intimidate a ghost into backing off.

The ghost sneers at him uncertainly. Maybe grabbing hold of a body holds more meaning than he realizes. He can’t think of any other reason a ghost, with the obvious intention of moving in on his ‘personal food bank’, would be showing any amount of uncertainty.

She must see something, though. Maybe Will’s face gives it away from behind his mask of overconfidence, because the ghost relaxes. Her grin becomes more genuine and Will has to suppress a shiver.

“None of my business because you have no idea, do you mean? The poor little leftover human stumbled into a body, and suddenly thinks he’s good enough to own it? How pitiful.”

And just like that she moves, swiping out at him with abnormally long, sharp looking claws. Will backs away on instinct, but his chest still ends up sliced open quite badly. He can’t feel the physical pain, but the claws strike through his own self too, and it’s enough to drive a cry from his lips.

He doesn't think, doesn't stop to contemplate what he’s doing, before he lunges back. He’s impeded by human flesh. Where his soul was fitted with horns, an extended jaw and sharp claws, he now has blunt nails, dull teeth, and pitiful strength. He’s obviously on the losing end of this.

It doesn't stop him from trying, though. For whatever reason, his human body doesn't keep him from touching the ghost. He can still claw at her face, and bite at where her overexposed neck lies. It’s barbaric, but he’s more concerned with keeping her from killing him to care.

His dull teeth still carve out a chunk of flesh from the ghost’s neck when she finally pushes him away. She snarls at him, and he returns it without question.

The ghost is still faster and stronger than him, though. It’s the only real injury he can put on her before he’s being shredded by claws and teeth. The ghost has her teeth at his neck, ready to tear it loose, when she pauses. 

Will thinks for a second that she’s seen something from over his head, but he’s proven wrong when the ghost is suddenly lifted from over top of him. Her bite eases from his neck easily, and Will looks up at his frazzled almost-murderer.

Arvid is standing over him, a firm grip at the base of the ghost’s neck. She isn't struggling, like she knows that there’s no point fighting him.

“You've broken the rules,” Arvid says, and he has that same strange, echoing voice as before. Will has never been more grateful to hear it.

The ghost starts squirming now, and Arvid sets her down without much care. She looks freaked out, and if Will weren't so dizzy, he’d be smirking at her. Clearly, whatever’s about to happen, it isn't good for his attacker.

“Listen, Arvi, it’s hardly breaking the rules with a pipsqueak like him! I mean, come on, he doesn't even—”

“You've broken the rules,” Arvid cuts her off, and the ghost shrinks in on herself. “The consequences of your actions are clear. You will be eaten by your victim or whoever is closest to your victim in the chance of his or her death.”

Arvid turns to Will, who’s feeling too weak to really do anything. Before the ghost can begin arguing again, Arvid’s already got one hand on her and one hand on Will. Will can feel the familiar energy seeping through him.

The response is different, this time. Where before he felt a boost in strength, now he feels like he’s becoming whole again. All the strength that’s been sapped from him through the deep, lacerated wounds has been given back, and his dizziness is mostly gone.

When he opens his eyes—which he’d closed on instinct—Hannibal is kneeling over him and Arvid is gone.

“How are you feeling, Will?”

He tries to answer him, but all that comes out is a wheezing, bubbling kind of noise. It takes him a second to realize that while he feels better, the body he’s in is still wrecked. When he looks up at Hannibal, he can see the fury on his face.

Obviously, this isn't the way he wanted today to end.

“Can you remove yourself from this body? Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

He has to stop to think about it. He’s always been shoved out of bodies, he’s never left one himself. He tries, tries to bring up the fight in James so that he can push himself out with that. It’s not there. James isn't struggling at all. Will can guess that the moment he leaves this body, James won’t have the will to take over. He can’t get out because the man who should be expelling his is too weak to do so.

He blinks twice.

Hannibal bares his teeth at Will for a split second, before composing himself. Will knows he’s not actually angry with him, and that it’s more at the ghost who did the damage, but the anger still unsettles him.

“I’m going to kill you, Will. The jolt should, theoretically, be enough to draw you from the body. I’ll be here when you wake up. Hopefully, you’ll still be able to speak.”

Will processes the idea. This body is going to die either way, Hannibal killing him isn't really necessary. He can understand why Hannibal might want him to die at his own hands, rather than at some strange monster’s, though.

He blinks once.

Hannibal takes out the scalpel he’d probably planned to use on the man they had tied up so he could remove an organ. From the fraction of a second he gets to look at it, he can tell the scalpel has already been used. If he were able to look over, he imagines he’d see a dead man hanging from that tree. Probably without any nails in him, too. He gets it. He gets what Hannibal did, and he’d thank him, if he could.

Hannibal saved his life, and now he’s going to die, once again, at his hands. It’s a funny thing to be thankful for, even though he gets why he is. Hannibal killing him shouldn't be permanent in the way that the ghost killing him would have been. The fact Hannibal is choosing to kill him with a scalpel rather than a hammer and nail is something he’ll be forever grateful for as well. He wouldn't have been able to feel it, but the image his mind conjures up is gruesome.

His lips twitch into a smile as he feels the blade go in. It doesn't hurt, but he can feel dizziness of a different kind wash over him. His mind goes blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry, I meant to have this up before now. A storm hit where I live, and the internet went down for a while. Terribly frustrating, especially when I wanted to look stuff up for this chapter.
> 
> Poor other James. I rather liked having Will in his body, even though he’s a dying cancer patient. Alas, it seems some things just aren't meant to be. Oh, this was a fun chapter. I got to write a mortified, horny Will, and a manipulative Hannibal and a scene where Hannibal straddles Will and just a bunch of other great things.
> 
> I also got to make Hannibal kill Will again, and that makes me happy. …And that also sounds really bad. Whoops~ Hannibal expresses his emotions through murder~ Look into your hearts, you know it’s true. Or maybe not. Whatever. And now I have no more new episodes to look forward to until next year! D: I shall be crying tears of pain for a long time. Until the next chapter!


	9. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is beyond done with everything. The sass is inevitable.

When Will wakes up, he feels a familiar mixture of disorientation, hunger, thirst, and splitting pain, all wracking through his body at the same time. It’s a feeling familiar enough that he can tell where he is almost before he opens his eyes.

“Hello again, Will.”

He barely restrains from moaning in frustration at the voice. He neither wants nor needs to deal with the ‘God of the Afterlife’, or whoever he really is, right now. Instead of audibly protesting, he simply chooses not to respond at all. That works for all of half a second, before he’s rewarded with a burning hand on his shoulder that practically lifts him off the ground in the man’s effort to make Will stand.

Oh, he’d missed that old familiar shoulder pain. He doesn't even bother looking at it this time—he already knows the sight is worse than the pain he feels. He’s too tired and hurt and altogether _done_ to deal with any of this. He just wants to go back to Hannibal, honestly. He still doesn't pay any attention to the man in front of him. God or no, Will's not in the mood to deal with anyone, at the moment.

“Will,” the man warns, and suddenly that familiar phantom pain turns into a searing burn that has him shouting out in protest.

Will grits his teeth and lets out an involuntary sob, before gathering himself to look up at the man. The pain eases up almost immediately, back to little more than the familiar phantom pain, though the burning sensation stays at the back of his mind for several seconds longer. His pain threshold has gotten impossibly high, now that he’s dead.

“Very good, Will,” the man praises him sarcastically. He looks angry, angrier than a little disobedience should cause him. “You weren't supposed to be back here for a while yet, Will. Three times in less than three months is a record that nobody should hold.”

Will manages to push away his total apathy at this entire situation for half a second, as confusion settles in to take it’s place.

“I've only been here twice.”

The man ignores him completely.

“I suppose some of it's my fault; I never did get around to having Arvid tell you more about the rest of your situation, but I honestly expected you to have better survival instincts than that,” the man admonishes. “Fighting an older demon while you’re inside a person. It’s a good thing that food source of yours is intelligent.”

When all the man does is continue to carry on a one-sided conversation over how badly Will reacted to the entire situation that landed him here, Will starts to tune him out to think about things other than his own apparent failure. The man had called that ghost a demon. With the little Will has gleaned from everything that’s happened, he’d—apparently falsely—figured everyone was on neutral ground when it came to death. There were ghosts, and there were supposedly reaper people like Arvid—he’s not entirely sure where Arvid fits into the afterlife if he isn't a reaper, because he doesn't seem to be like ordinary ghosts—and then there’s the supposed God.

If ‘God’ was talking about the type of demon that humans refer to, that opens up an entirely new line of inquiry. He should mention that to Hannibal, when he goes back.

“Hey!” the intense burning comes back before Will can recognize for himself that tuning out a conversation with this man is probably a bad idea. This time, the burning doesn't stop until he’s on his knees.

The process is excruciating, like all of his nerves have been set on fire, and he can’t do anything about it. He’s stuck there, unable to protect or in any way lessen the pain for himself, until this ‘God’ deigns to stop. Praise God, the truly wonderful man who tortures those who disobey him. Will feels sick, in addition to the wracking pain. When the burning subsides, he’s sweating and shivering. If he could, he imagines he’d lose the contents of his stomach over how much he's convulsing.

“I know your little boy toy in the living world is interesting, but I’d appreciate your attention. I do have things to tell you, you’re not just down here for a field trip.”

If he weren't afraid of the repercussions, he’d comment that so far all he’s done is tell Will how stupid he’s been, which is hardly important enough to be dragged into the afterlife for. He doesn't need anyone to point his own stupidity out to him; he can recognize it well enough on his own.

“You need to learn obedience, Will,” the man says, and Will shifts uneasily when more ghosts—or demons, or whatever they are—start appearing around him. “And beyond that, you need to learn how to fight.”

Will can see where this is going immediately. He can't do anything about it, aside from shooting a glare at the man who apparently thinks this is a bright idea, but he has the ability to recognize the situation he's in, at the very least. Small favors.

“You were lucky the demon that attacked you broke one of our laws by trying to kill you when you were inside a human. From the way you fought her, it's clear you wouldn't have survived without the interception. A few volunteers have been kind enough to offer to teach you, since you can’t find the time while in the world of the living.”

Will wants to protest. If what she did was against the law, then he isn't really at fault for his inability to defend himself. He can already feel the answering burn that he'd get, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and looks over at the ghosts willing to 'help' him.

The ‘volunteers’ are looking at him in a way that suggests that teaching isn't really what they have in mind. 'Punishment' seems more fitting a word. Or maybe, going off what the man had said earlier, they’re going to beat some obedience into him. If God notices the way his volunteer attack dogs are looking at Will, he doesn't do anything to ward them off. At least he doesn't do anything to encourage them. 

“They’ll stop before they kill you, but it’s going to hurt if you don’t catch on, Will. Refreshments will appear frequently, feel free to pause and freshen up a bit,” he offers. And then he’s gone, and Will is surrounded by a dozen ghost/demon things that all look like they’d love a chance to devour him.

All at once, they lunge.

***

At least the man hadn't lied to him. None of the ghosts—he’s given up trying to figure out if they’re ghosts or demons, or if the two words even hold any significant difference in meaning in the afterlife—have actually killed him. They've left him bleeding, unable to move and in physical agony several times, but they always revive him, similarly to how Arvid had, before continuing.

He’s gotten rather good at fighting, really. He knows, for instance, that vanishing is a useful tool in both defense and offence; that most demons seem to have trouble defending their legs, so kicking is effective; that while his nails and teeth are good weapons, his horns are emphatically not; and that calling 'time' does not actually get them to stop so that he can take a break.

He's also learned that pain is a useless tool that only lingers around those who haven’t been dead very long, because none of his adversaries seem to feel it the way he does.

He’s busy ripping the throat out of one of the ghosts who’d shredded his intestines a few hours previously, when ‘God’ comes back. The moment he appears, all of the ghosts vanish, and Will is left kneeling on the ground, tired and hurt and still halfway in the mind of some kind rabid animal.

He’s practically growling at the god in front of him, before he catches himself and reverts back to a more human mentality. He can’t stop himself from imagining every single way he might be able to kill the man before him, though. It’s not out of any sort of spite, it’s more like a survival instinct that’s only now been activated is dictating him to do it, whether he consciously wants to or not. He’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to get rid of the automatic response, now.

“You look good, Will,” ‘God’ compliments. Will snorts at him.

He doesn't need to look down at himself to know that he’s covered in gashes. He’s hoping they'll disappear along with his burnt shoulder and screaming nerves when he finally goes back to the living world.

“You do, though. You look less like a complete fuck-up, and more like someone who might actually live to see the end of a fight. Go eat someone, rest for a bit. You’re leaving soon.”

Will does as he's told automatically. It’s not until he’s absorbed one of the souls that are still sitting on the sidelines where he’d been fighting that he realizes exactly how automatic his response had been. He feels like in the course of one visit, he’s become a trained pup, recognizing a superior being and instinctively aiming to please it. It seems somewhere in the middle of trying to keep himself from being tortured by ghosts, that instinct had turned on too. He’s half-expecting the man to call him over and pat his head for following his orders so well.

He moves to turn around and snarl at the man, out of spite more than anything else, when he's suddenly not looking at the afterlife anymore, he’s back at the edge of the forest with Hannibal. The snarl is ripped from his throat in surprise at the sudden shift that he hadn't even blinked for. He lets out a yelp when his hand—which had unconsciously moved to a striking position when he’d thought about turning to face the man—almost strikes Hannibal across the face.

He has to push himself backwards to keep from catching Hannibal in the eye.

However long he was in the afterlife, it doesn't seem to have translated to the time that exists back here. It’s hardly any lighter out, and he can still see the man’s body hanging from a tree, so it can't have been too long.

Of course, the hanging man has the telltale nails hammered into him now, so at least a little time has to have gone by.

“Hannibal?”

Hannibal turns to look at him almost immediately. Will can’t help but smile, something that Hannibal reciprocates, even though he can’t see him.

“Will. It’s good to know I haven’t killed you permanently this time.” His tone sounds honestly grateful, and Will is temporarily struck by how off kilter their whole relationship has become.

Killer and victim reunited, and both feel the better for it.

Will's exhausted over the whole ordeal. It’s not as bad as he’d felt in the afterlife—and like he’d suspected, his wounds have all mysteriously disappeared—but the physical toll from all of the exertion hasn't left him.

He wants to lie down and pretend to sleep, more than anything. That seems to be his default status after anything that even vaguely affects him, which might not be healthy, but at least it makes him feel better.

He still has things to say that he couldn't while dying, though. His wish his for possibly unhealthy coping mechanism is set aside now that he's back with Hannibal. There are, unfortunately, some things he owes the man. A talk is one of those things, even if it’s a small thing that doesn't really amount to much between the two.

“Thank you for saving me. Well, saving me and then killing me.” He’d like to imagine Hannibal can see the smile he’s directing at him, because he truly is thankful. He halfway recognizes how insane his life is, that he’s thankful that Hannibal killed someone for him, and then _actually_ killed him. The recognition isn't anything new, though, and it’s easier to just ignore it at this point.

“Your very welcome, Will. I’m simply glad it worked. You've said before that Arvid hasn't been around during our killings as of late.” And now Hannibal’s smiling at him again, similarly to how he’d looked during the whole Tobias incident. They're sending each other heartfelt expressions, and they can't even see each other properly. This whole thing is starting to feel very soppy.

Will chooses to bypass the entire subject, in hopes to maybe feel less like he’s just been reunited with a long lost lover, or something. Suddenly, the man calling Hannibal his ‘boy toy’ makes a lot more sense now.

He clears his throat awkwardly, thankful he can’t blush in this form—not that Hannibal could see it, regardless, but it gives his confidence a boost that he desperately needs. “So, what? You see me getting ripped open by an invisible monster and decide that killing John Doe over there,” he points to the man before dropping his hand, realizing that Hannibal wouldn't be able to see it, “might bring Arvid over? I never took you for a gambling man.”

Hannibal smirks, and Will immediately feels more grounded. They’re out of the unfamiliar territory of soulful stares and wistful smiles, and back into regular banter.

“It was hardly a gamble, Will. Either I killed the man and Arvid came to collect while you were otherwise engaged—” also known as ‘getting his ass kicked’, “or Arvid didn't come, and I killed Mr. Doe out of pattern for the Nkisi Nkondi murderer, something that can easily be explained away to the FBI. I stood no outstanding loss.”

Will rolls his eyes. In essence, he’s basically happy that Hannibal thought that he was worth prematurely killing someone over. He has to push away the feeling of ridiculousness over their entire relationship again.

“Are you alright, Will?” Hannibal asks, interrupting his inner amusement. He sounds honestly worried, though, and Will has to remind himself that Hannibal did just see him die in a body that was more than a little broken a short while ago.

His amusement wanes, somewhat. “I’m fine. Apparently the ghost, er, the _demon_ ,” he corrects, “did something not condoned by ‘God’, or whoever, when she attacked me when I was still inside a body, so Arvid ended up feeding her to me. According to the supposed God, Arvid wouldn't have come if you hadn't killed the man. I’m still not entirely sure how that works.” He's not. The whole thing seems strange. He's happy it turned out okay, but it doesn't really clear anything up for him.

“You visited the afterlife once again, I take it?” Hannibal asks. He’s curious, obviously, about his time there. The afterlife is probably one of the few things he doesn't know about, and even still, he’s learning about it now. By the end of this, Will wouldn't be surprised if Hannibal died knowing all of life’s secrets.

“Yeah. Nothing really got explained. I’m guessing most of what I say based off a sentence where he casually mentions something. Most of it was learning how to fight, actually.” And that’s as far as he plans to go into the fighting bit of it. “He did say that the woman I fought was a demon, though, if that means anything to you.”

Obviously it’ll mean something to Hannibal. The word ‘demon’ means something to everybody. It’s just a question of what Hannibal reads into it based on God admitting that demons really exist.

Hannibal hums thoughtfully. Will can almost see ideas flash across his face. He _can_ see when Hannibal comes across something that actually makes sense to him. He can also see the moment he represses it and chooses to say something different.

“You said that God said she did something illegal?” He pauses long enough for Will to say yes, before nodding and continuing. “He could be referring to those who break his laws as ‘demons’, and by default, those who follow him loyally could then be referred to as angels. Maybe it is only those like you, who haven’t decided yet how they feel about him, that he refers to as ‘ghosts’,” Hannibal offers.

It’s a sound hypothesis, really. Will also knows that it’s not the first one that Hannibal came up with.

“You don’t think it has anything to do with Heaven and Hell?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I’m merely offering up one suggestion. It could have something to do with Heaven or Hell. If that is the case, do you believe you've been talking to God or Satan?” Hannibal asks, and there’s a familiar inquisitiveness in his eyes that Will immediately recognizes. As fond of Will as Hannibal is, there are always times that Hannibal looks at him like he's a puzzle to be solved. If Will had to guess, this is one of those times.

He tries to choose his words carefully. “I think that if Heaven and Hell existed, Hell is the one I’m seeing now.”

“And why is that?” There's a new look that flashes across Hannibal's face. It makes Will uneasy, like he's allowing himself to walk into a lion's den. He has to search for words, even though he knows exactly what he wants to say, and he clears his throat when it feels to restricted to talk.

Despite his discomfort, he does know what he wants to say. “I can see the potential for evil in every living person. I can see what you’d look like as a demon, right now. That doesn't seem like the gift someone who's talked to God would receive.” Even as he mentions it, he can see the silhouette behind Hannibal’s face grow stronger and more pronounced. He can’t imagine angels see the potential for evil in people. It makes sense that, in this theory, an angel’s job would be to nurture good, and it’s difficult to nurture the good in someone, when all they can see is the bad in them.

Suddenly, he feels sick over his own appearance.

“What do I look like, Will?” Hannibal draws his attention back towards the present situation. He tries to find the words that best describe what he sees. He can explain the physical changes, the reality of what he sees, but he doesn't think that’s what Hannibal means.

“You look powerful.” It’s the most honest answer he can think of.

Hannibal smiles at him. It looks altogether more sinister, when his flesh face is behind the monster’s face he possesses. “Does that mean I’m evil?”

 _Yes. Yes that’s exactly what it means, and you know it._ He doesn't say the words, but he knows that Hannibal can tell that’s what he thinks. The words are dangling loosely through the air between them, tangible in how unspoken they are. They both know that Hannibal isn't a saint.

“You’re evil with standards and restraint," he says instead. "I think, in some ways, you’re worse than Satan.” The words ring true. Satan, if that is who he’s been talking to—and this is all conjecture, really. Neither of them knows if this hypothesis is even close to accurate or not—is powerful and cruel, but Hannibal fills the role more closely to how Will imagines it. Part of what makes Hannibal so intimidating a man is how positively restrained and intelligent he is.

He’s like Satan living above ground, while someone else fills his role from below. It makes a startling amount of sense, actually. Satan who’s acting a role, who pretends he can’t see Will, but still steadily keeps him in sight, and brings him closer and closer to killing people of his own volition. Brings him closer to corruption. Satan, who summoned a soldier when it looked like Will was going to die, because he was young and didn't know how to exit the body he was in. Satan, who had someone kill the demon who attacked him, because he never gave her his permission to do so.

And Satan, who killed him, who manipulated his unlife so that he wanted nothing more than to be by his side. He’s the kind of man who would manipulate a situation where he had to kill Will again, and make Will grateful that he did it. Those are the kind of actions Will would expect from Satan.

He takes an involuntary step back. Hannibal looks over at him.

“Who are you?”

Hannibal smiles at him, in a way that makes Will take several more steps back. He has to sidestep before he passes through a tree. "Be more specific, Will. What question do you really want answered?"

He wants to run away. He can't deal with _another_ revelation over who Hannibal really is. This was just supposed to be crazy conjecture over a word that a fake God had let slip, it wasn't supposed to be some all-encompassing discovery. He needs to scream, he feels bottled up, wound too tight without anyway to release himself. He still manages to ask the question, though.

"Are you Satan?"

"That's one of the many names I go by, Will. Does that surprise you?" Hannibal's looking at him curiously, head tilted in a way that shows off false curiosity. He's enjoying this. He's enjoying this, and Will can't even breath properly, which is ridiculous because he doesn't need to breath, and if he just focuses he can keep himself under control. Hannibal walks towards him steadily, and he backs up in kind. Finally, Hannibal lets out a sigh and appears behind him, grabbing his shoulder in the exact spot the fake God had.

He faints almost immediately, the image of Hannibal's flesh body eclipsed by the monster that's finally been set free imprinted into his mind.

This was not how his life was supposed to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the short-ish chapter, the next one should be quite a bit longer, as there’s much to do now that Hannibal has gone all ‘I'm secretly Satan lol how did you not see this coming in your shitty little life’ on Will.
> 
> So. Who expected Hannibal to be Satan? Much praise to you if you did, because honestly, Hannibal’s a little shit, but he’s also a tremendous actor. Plus, this totally means that during that one time in an earlier chapter where Will mentioned walking in on Hannibal in the bathroom, Hannibal _knew_. That shouldn't make me as happy as it does. I'm an immature person, ignore me.
> 
> Also, raise your hand if you think Hannibal’s lackey who pretended to be God is going to get murdered when Hannibal finds out he tortured Will, because how fucking dare he lay a hand on his favorite little ghost? Did he really think he wouldn’t find out? Really? Silly demon man.


	10. Me and the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal talk, meet the man who's replaced him, and have a little bonding time. Oh my.

When Will wakes up, he almost expects to be back in the afterlife—or Hell, or whatever that place actually _is_. He’s not. Instead, he finds himself in Hannibal’s house, in the room his dogs have taken to lying in when they aren’t outside. Just like any other time he feels overwhelmed and needs to go somewhere to relax.

Except this time it’s different, because Hannibal is there with him. Or Satan is there with him, or the Chesapeake Ripper, or the Nkisi Nkondi Murderer, or the Copycat, or whatever the fuck else Hannibal is also known as. Will feels like his head might explode. He’d be honestly glad if it did, it would certainly save him from having to deal with _this_. Not that he’s even sure what this is, anymore.

Hannibal’s busy reading a book, and apparently hasn’t noticed he’s woken up just yet. The cover is written in a language Will can’t read, and even if he could, it looks like a tome filled with some kind of psychobabble he wouldn’t be able to understand anyway. His dogs haven’t noticed either, from where they’re sleeping. They’re lying around him almost perfectly, like they recognize where he is even though they can’t see him.

He moves to get up, totally silent. Hannibal’s eyes look up from his book almost immediately, regardless of the care he took to be quiet. He smiles at him.

“It’s good to see you awake, Will. I was beginning to worry I’d put you under for too long.”

Will scoffs. He can’t imagine Hannibal—or Satan, or _whoever_ he is—accidentally doing anything. Especially not now, not in a moment so pivotal to whatever relationship Hannibal seems to think he can cultivate. That he was succeeding in cultivating, before this.

“Well, Sleeping Beauty’s finally woken up, so you can relax.” He wants to add something along the lines of ‘and leave the room and never return, thanks’ but he feels that might be considered rude, and their relationship is kind of in a precarious place as it is. He might wait until he’s figured out what’s happening before he tries to offend Satan.

Hannibal doesn’t say anything to that, instead choosing to look over him in silence. Will shifts uncomfortably, feels laid bare, as if he’s an extravagant meal that Hannibal’s admiring before he dines.

It takes a moment for it to connect that this is Hannibal’s first chance to honestly look at Will—while he’s awake, at least—without having to pretend he can’t see him. ‘Extravagant meal’ probably isn’t far off. He can almost feel Hannibal’s pleasure, actually.

Which does bring on a question, actually. “How can I connect with you?”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure what you mean, Will.”

“When I died—when you killed me,” he corrects, “I felt disconnected from the living world. I didn’t connect with Arvid, or whoever’s playing you when I go down to wherever that place is. I only connect with you and your victims, and that’s only because I’ve been in their position. And I couldn’t even connect with you at first! What changed?”

There are so, so, so many more important questions than that, all of which he could have asked just as easily. For some reason, this is one of the ones that bother him the most. The demon playing God said something about it, about not getting too close to Hannibal. He doesn’t understand what happened, _why_ he would be warned about that.

“You’d like to go straight on to questions, then?” Hannibal asks, somewhat rhetorically, Will thinks, given the situation. Or who knows, maybe he’d thought that Will would want to go kill someone before they had this conversation.

When Will doesn’t answer, Hannibal sighs.

“There’s a great deal you don’t understand, Will. The bond you share with me is hardly a high priority.” In other words, Hannibal doesn’t want to tell him the answer, and maybe if Will said why he cared so much, he might be more lenient. Hannibal doesn’t change, even when he’s revealed to be Satan.

“You’re the one who had the demon mention it to me, I figured it was important enough to ask about,” Will says, allowing frustration to color his voice.

Hannibal merely looks at him in honest confusion, and Will lets out a sigh.

“The demon said that I should stay away from you. Or is that warning totally unrelated to my sudden ability to connect with you enough that going on a murderous rampage sounded like a good idea?” He asks sarcastically, and then promptly shuts up at the expression that Hannibal wears.

He feels like he might have accidentally just killed that demon. Not that he felt a huge loss at that, considering everything he went through at his hands. He wonders if the mild torturous treatment was something Hannibal had allowed, or if mentioning it would make him even angrier. He’s feeling bitter enough at the moment, that he’s considering trying it. He won’t, though. He can consider all he’d like, but he won’t actually do it.

Hannibal’s expression clears a second later. “That’s very informative. Thank you, Will.” He doesn’t comment further on what it means, though, and Will’s about to bring it up again when Hannibal stands up and walks forward.

He sits down on the bed, displacing one of the dogs that had been lying there, and pats the spot next to him. He’s patient enough that after almost an entire minute of hesitancy, Will takes a seat next to him.

“How do I look to you, Will?” He asks, and Will’s brought back to when he’d previously asked the question.

It still doesn’t sound like he means it in a physical sense, but Will can’t really form the words. _Powerful_ still fits. _Dangerous_ , or _intimidating_ or _evil_ are all accurate words, too. None of them are really the word Will’s looking for, though. Good is his honest summation. Hannibal looks _good_. He feels uncomfortable just thinking it.

“You look like a monster,” he answers instead. It’s a disgusting choice of description. It’s true, Hannibal hardly looks human anymore, but monster entails a kind of inelegant, indecent image that doesn’t fit Hannibal’s appearance. Will looks like a monster, Hannibal looks like Satan. His appearance is on an entirely different level of description.

“Will,” Hannibal warns, in a tone that makes him swallow and look away uneasily. “I want a truthful answer from you. If I’m going to explain this to you, we both need to uphold the same level of honesty.”

Will keeps back his biting comment about how high Hannibal seems to regard honesty, given everything that’s happened and nods his head instead. There’ll be a time and a place when he can be as brutally honest and aggressive as he’d like. He can wait.

What he can’t do is tell Hannibal the truth while sitting so close to him. It feels too intimate, and it really shouldn’t. He’s seen regular people’s inner demons, he’s seen a pretend god’s demon—hell, he’s even seen regular old demons, now. The stronger a demon looks, the better chance he has of survival. Will can see that, can infer it based on the fake god, and the monsters of society. With that criteria, Hannibal _does_ look good.

Will feels like he’s trying too hard to categorize it, to pointedly express the exact way he feels his summation fits. It does nothing to dispel how uncomfortable he feels about the topic. He stands up and walks over to where Hannibal had been sitting before he’d woken up. It doesn’t create a lot of space, but it’s better than where he’d been sitting before.

It also has the disadvantage of facing him towards Hannibal, though.

Hannibal is still sitting there, patiently waiting for an answer. It’s unsettling how positively _the same_ Hannibal is, given the revelation of who he’s turned out to be. Everything about Hannibal spoke of refinement and hidden threats; it was no less true now than it was before Will knew Hannibal’s identity.

He draws in a deep, stabling breath. “You look good. Better than me, at least,” he says, falling back on self-deprecation as a form of poor defense.

Hannibal smiles at him, though. He’s pleased about something, and Will can’t pin down what. It’s obviously about his answer, but admitting that Satan looks good according to demon standards is hardly a compliment.

Hannibal inclines his head in thanks. “You look better every day, Will. You came into the world of the dead in a state worse than when you left the living. You’ve filled out since then.” He leans closer as he speaks, not leaving the bed but still doing an incredible impression of invading Will’s personal space.

Will leans back. “That doesn’t answer my question. Honesty in trade for honesty, remember?”

“I was merely pointing out that you should feel no shame in how you look. You’re filling out remarkably well for one so young,” Hannibal pauses to look over Will again, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat when Hannibal deliberately catches his eyes.

“Demons don’t often hunt together; we’re territorial and aggressive by nature. Society may call me Satan, but I am, in essence, the same as any other demon. Killing and hunting are things to be done alone, not shared with others.” He pauses to lick at his lips, and smirks when Will’s eyes automatically drop down to watch. “You could say that two demons hunting together are close to one another, or are trying to become closer to each other. It’s a bonding exercise that is very rarely practiced these days. It’s intimate.”

Will tries to follow along with what Hannibal’s telling him. It’s difficult, mostly because it feels like Hannibal isn’t really answering the question—not directly, at the very least. He’s implying the answer, and waiting for Will to make the jump himself.

Will tries to think, tries to remember every last detail about the murders they’d performed. With the exception of the practice people, chosen specifically so that Will could work on his abilities, every murder was a performance. With the Nkisi Nkondi murders, Hannibal expressed efficiency and control in the beginning, and brought forward his intelligence, taste, and brutality during the actual act of murdering his victims. He was showing off, really.

Will, on the other hand, hadn’t ever been involved. Oh, he included himself in the blame, naturally, but he never grabbed a knife and did the cutting. He was there during the murders, he didn’t do anything to stop them, and he only participated in the end. Hannibal presented him with a soul, and then took his own winnings afterward.

It all sounded vaguely like—“Are you _courting_ me?” He asks, and leans back once more when he realizes he’d unintentionally started moving closer to Hannibal.

Hannibal is smiling at him again, and Will wants to run away. Something tells him that Hannibal wouldn’t have a hard time catching him, even if he chose to vanish instead. He stays put.

“I’m extending an offer, yes. It doesn’t have to mean what you think it means, Will,” he signs when he sees Will’s expression and adds, “courting is a way to express interest. We don’t have to be lovers.”

 _But he’d like to be_ , Will’s mind supplies him. Satan would like to be lovers with him. Hannibal would like to be lovers with him. He’s not sure which one is more surprising.

“What would we be, if we weren’t lovers?” He asks.

“Friends. I’d be accepting you as an equal, given that you continued training, of course,” Hannibal says, and there’s probably more to it than that, but Will gets what he’s saying. They’d be platonic partners, basically. It would be Hannibal’s way of laying claim on him.

“This isn’t the conversation I intended for us to have right now,” Hannibal says. “You don’t have to make a decision quickly, I’m sure you have other questions to ask before you could even begin to consider the idea.”

Will does have other questions, but he’s pretty sure none of the answers will convince him that accepting this weird, possessive courting ritual is a good idea. He’ll ignore the fact that all of his newfound instincts are screaming at him to run away, and ask the questions he has. And then he’ll politely tell Hannibal that there’s no way in _Hell_ that he’s going to go along with this courting thing.

Maybe he should have started this conversation with the obvious question. He’s not sure how to word this one, though, because it’s not really a question. He has to take a minute to reword it into something more articulate than _“So… Satan?”_

He clears his throat. “What does being Satan entail, exactly?”

Hannibal looks vaguely amused at his question, and Will realizes how broad what he’s asking is. He knows Hannibal will answer him, regardless.

“Humans created the name Satan, Will. Very little of what I do is punishing those who don’t adhere to a certain religion, just as God isn’t an omnipotent being who rewards those who adhere to an ancient text,” Hannibal says.

It’s hard for Will to keep up with what he’s saying. His whole body is flickering back and forth between man and demon, as if talking about this at all disrupts his human image. He flinches when the two appearances smile at him. This entire thing is bizarre.

“My role as Satan is what you’d expect, if you take out the torturing. I run Hell, Will. I control demons and reapers, and sometimes, when someone special comes along, I allow myself to engage with human lives.” Hannibal’s image turns almost purely demon at this point, and Will isn’t sure whether he should flinch back or draw forward. He does neither.

“And sometimes you allow demons that dislike you to rule Hell while you take a vacation?” Will can’t help but ask. It’s true, at the very least. The demon he spoke to showed no indication of respect for Hannibal, and only so much can be acted.

Hannibal’s smile turns to something altogether sharper and crueler, and this time Will does flinch back.

“Controlling the demons of Hell does not always mean watching their every move; rebellion is an important factor in any hierarchy. It’s an interesting experiment in demon psychology, watching them while I’m away. I’ve found the experience quite enlightening.”

Will can hazard a guess on what’s going to happen between Hannibal and the demons that have ‘enlightened’ him.

He doesn’t want to ask the next obvious question. He shouldn’t have to, actually. He already knows that Hannibal could see him the entire time; he doesn’t need to ask about it—he doesn’t even really want to ask about it, actually. He can look back and see every moment, every single time Hannibal looked directly at him, and how he overlooked the possibility that Hannibal really might have been able to. It had seemed so implausible that Hannibal could see him, at the time. And he was very good at acting the part.

So he skips that question, because he doesn’t need to go over every moment he screwed up with Hannibal. He has something better to ask, anyway.

“What about Heaven? Should I assume that somewhere a God does exist, even if he isn’t an omnipotent rewarder of good?” He asks. He can see Hannibal’s mouth twist into a frown, just for a second, before his features smooth out to an indifferent mask once more.

“God exists as I do, a figment of society’s wishes. Heaven exists, and God rules over it. My knowledge doesn’t spread further than that, unfortunately.”

Hannibal looks over at the clock on one of the bedside tables, and then promptly gets to his feet. His human façade is immediately visible again, though more transparent than before.

“I’m very sorry, Will. I had expected you to wake up earlier, and now I have other duties to attend to. It seems we’ll finally be meeting your replacement.” He pauses in what’s probably a false hesitation, but Will can appreciate the gesture. “That is, if you’d care to join me.”

Will frowns, but nods his head anyway. He’s… confused. Over this whole entire situation, really. He’s also aware that Hannibal isn’t telling him everything about Heaven, and that abrupt departing is his way of avoiding further conversation. But he would like to meet Mr. Sebastian Eiland, new consultant to the FBI, and he doesn’t see a reason not to go with Hannibal. Well, besides the obvious one. The new title doesn’t actually make his reputation worse, honestly. Will already knew that Hannibal killed and ate people. If anything, this gives him an excuse not to feel so sickened by it.

So he’ll go along, for now. And he’ll try to forget that the entirety of his afterlife would probably be better if he’d chosen not to go along with Hannibal the first time.

Plus, he has more questions. He waits until they’re in the car to ask them.

“Can you sleep?”

Will can see Hannibal’s reaction to the unexpected question, and can’t help but smile slightly. It’s not everyday someone can say that they startled Satan.

“I can, though I sometimes choose not to. I do try to keep my body as well cared for as I can. I’ve found it lengthens its life expectancy.”

So basically if he’d stayed in James’s body, he would have been able to fall asleep. That’s mildly disappointing to find out.

“How did I faint, then? I thought ghosts couldn’t sleep?” This really wasn’t the direction he’d planned his questioning to go. Maybe he’s gotten so numbed to killing, the serious questions he should be asking don’t matter to him anymore. Or maybe he’s seen Hannibal kill so many times, he can already answer his own questions, if he ever thinks to ask them.

“You can’t sleep of your own volition, I was the one to make you faint. It’s in poor practice to do so, however. A ghost shouldn’t be out of awareness as often as you are, Will,” Hannibal says. And yes, Will supposes that all of those times he’d gone to visit Hell he had technically been sleeping.

“I’ve found poor practices guide most of my life. It’s how I met you, after all,” he answers back, only to be surprised with the answering laugh he receives.

“My good Will, did you honestly believe I hadn’t noticed you before that meeting?” 

Will frowns. “When did you first notice me, then?”

“Quite some time before that. You’re going to see James Durham’s body at the crime scene, you should prepare yourself for that.” Hannibal says in substitute for a real answer.

Will frowns at him, but lets the change of subject slide for now. That’s an issue Will doesn’t need to openly discuss right now. Or ever, maybe.

“Why is Jack inviting you to the crime scene?”

“Pictures don’t always suffice when compared to the real event. I imagine he’d like me to have a closer look. I have been to crime scenes before, Will,” he reminds him. That’s true, actually. Hannibal had gone to a crime scene there very first case together. Although, technically he helped facilitate that one, so Will’s not sure if it counts.

“How long was I asleep?”

Hannibal takes a fleeting look at him from the corner of his eye, and his smile comes back. “Forty-four hours. You did not take well to being forced into a faint.”

“Does anyone?” Will asks, only for Hannibal to laugh at him once more. He’s not entirely sure he was joking, though. In all likelihood, Hannibal has done this to other people before.

“You’re a special case, Will. In comparison to other people, you will always show strikingly different results.”

“So I’m different even in the afterlife. It’s nice to have it certified, even if the certifier is Satan.” He says, and they both end up laughing this time.

Their relationship feels weird. It’s almost as if they could just go back to being normal. And why shouldn’t they? It’s what’s happened every other time. Being killed, turning into a ghost, killing other people; nothing really seems to separate them. Really, why should Hannibal being Satan be any different?

His mind is shouting the answer at him, that Hannibal being the Devil is an alarmingly large sign saying that he should not be associating with him. He doesn’t have much choice though, does he? It’s not like God or one of his angels has come down to talk to him about alternative options. All he’s doing now is surviving; that can hardly be considered a condemnable action, even by God’s standards.

He stays quiet for the rest of the trip there. He still has questions, obviously, but he doesn’t want them answered now. He has more than enough to think about as it is without adding other—possibly unexpected—information on top of it. Hannibal seems just as content to allow silence to settle over them. It’s not an uncomfortable ride.

When they get there, Will’s taken aback, slightly, by the number of agents that are surrounding the woods. He’s not sure why, crime scenes are usually busy places. Weeks spent by Hannibal’s side have lowered the number of people he’s run into significantly. Going into this mess of people is almost alarming.

He follows after Hannibal, shoving his discomfort to the back of his mind. Jack and the team aren’t hard to spot. They’re still at the outer edge of the forest, but the number of men hustling in and out of the tree line suggests that they’ve found the body that lies farther in. Will wants to gag at what it must look like now, after so long tied up in the heat.

Jack stops what he’s doing when he sees Hannibal walking forwards. He’s talking to a man—most likely Will’s replacement—and they both turn to greet the new arrival. Keller, Price, and Katz see him coming and must have had some kind of prior warning, because all three of them enter into the woods.

“Dr. Lecter, I’m glad you could make it on such short notice. This is Special Agent Sebastian Eiland. Special Agent Eiland, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” Jack introduces.

Will keeps back a bitter smile, even though the only person who could see it isn’t currently looking at him. ‘Special Agent’ Sebastian Eiland. He’s clearly been replaced by someone of worth.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, though our circumstances are less than fortunate,” Hannibal says, offering his hand to shake.

Eiland takes it politely, a small, unassuming smile on his face. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get better acquainted without all the dead bodies in the background,” he agrees with a hesitant laugh. He seems a charming guy, really—if slightly awkward. Will shouldn’t hold as many ill feelings for the man as he does.

They all walk towards the first body. Will doesn’t remember his name—he’s pretty sure he called him John Doe last time, and Hannibal had never corrected him—but he’s familiar with the sight of him.

The body that’s hung across from his is more of a shock. Seeing someone he ‘inhabited’, even if it had only been for a few hours, hung up like that is shocking. It’s not as bad as it could be, but it’s still unpleasant. He turns his attention back to Jack, Hannibal, and Eiland.

“His name is Peter Hultz, he worked as a carpenter for a private carpentry business two hours from here. The man next to him is James Durham. He worked as a doctor for St. Mary’s Medical center, also two hours from here, but in the opposite direction. Half a mile into the woods is a Ms. Katherine Karr, a hairdresser for Mastercuts in Charleston, an hour from here. She was killed a week ago,” Jack says, and he looks both worn out and aggravated. He has a right to be, given that after two weeks of silence, three bodies have suddenly shown up.

Jack doesn’t take long to gather himself up again, though. “The question is, why did the Nkondi Murderer kill three people in the same place, one of them at a different time. And why were these two killed differently than all of the other victims?” Jack asked. He looked at both Eiland and Hannibal, waiting for theories.

Hannibal spoke first.

“Are you sure James Durham was killed by a man at all? His wounds look predominately feral in nature.”

“Yes, but he has a stab wound in his heart, and it clearly bled out. Someone killed him after whatever happened to him beforehand,” Eiland says.

Hannibal nods his acknowledgement, already knowing the information beforehand. It’s still interesting to watch him work, knowing that he was the cause of the murders. 

“In that case, perhaps we have a copycat. Someone who went hiking through the woods, only to see a body and become inspired to act on their own,” Hannibal offers. He’s met with less immediate resistance for this hypothesis.

Will can’t help but laugh. Hannibal glances at him from the corner of his eye, and Will swears that for a second his lips twitch up.

“Seriously, Hannibal? You plan to play the murderer and the copycat? Very bold of you,” he says, still snickering. This shouldn’t be funny—he is talking about dead bodies, after all—but the irony is astounding. Who’s ever heard of a murderer copycatting his own work? Especially so poorly, when considering James Durham.

Hannibal’s smile becomes almost imperceptibly wider before it disappears from view, and all he offers is a small shake of his head to answer Will. It’s not a very good one, Will isn’t sure what it means.

Sebastian interrupts the unnoticed amusement passing between the two of them.

“So someone stumbles on a body while on a hike, and they just happen to be crazy enough to get inspired by it? What about the animalistic wounds the other victim, James Durham, has? The killer’s same hike fortuitously handed him a man being attacked by a wolf?” Eiland asks, incredulous.

Will frowns at him. It’s a good point, sure, but he’s not offering up any alternatives. There’s a give and take to investigation that he isn’t good at. He’s smart, at least. Will’s not sure where it will lead to, but it might make Hannibal work. Not that he has to try very hard even if his theories do end up getting shot down. The head shake makes more sense now.

Hannibal smiles easily at Eiland and waves to the crime scene. “You make an excellent point, Special Agent Eiland. Do you have any theories you’d care to share?”

Sebastian stalls at that, and looks back at the scene. Will takes the time to look over at Jack. He’s smart, he probably already came up with the copycat idea before Hannibal mentioned it. Not that the idea was right, but it was still a possibility that Will can’t imagine Jack overlooked.

He hasn’t said anything beyond the introduction, either. If Will had to guess, he’s probably gauging Hannibal and Eiland’s attitudes towards each other. He doesn’t look pleased—though that could simply be because of their location.

Will doubts it. Hannibal and Eiland aren’t outwardly hostile, but there’s a tension there that isn’t great. Will wants to pretend he isn’t pleased by that. He wants even more to pretend that he doesn’t know why he’s pleased.

“The Peter Hultz murder is almost an exact replica of the Nkisi Nkondi murders. The only difference is that the nails were put in post mortem. James Durham, on the other hand, looks like he was mauled while he was alive, before being stabbed in the heart. If this is a copycat, he’s very experimental.”

“Do we know which man was killed first?” Hannibal asked, turning to Jack.

Jack shakes his head. “Price says they were killed too closely together to tell. You’re the psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter. Which order makes the most sense, if this is a copycat?”

Hannibal pauses to consider his answer. It’s an interesting question, considering there’s no obvious variation of what actually happened that makes any kind of sense.

“They were both tied up and then killed?” He asks first.

“No, there are signs that James Durham bled out several yards away. Whatever happened to him happened over there.” Jack motions to where he was. Will grimaces at the bloodstains, appreciating once again the fact that he wasn’t able to feel pain when inside James.

“It would stand to reason that Peter Hultz was the first to die, then, as he looks to be the one who was prepared.” Hannibal says.

“Or,” Eiland says hesitantly, catching Jack and Hannibal’s attention, “maybe this is the Nkisi Nkondi Murderer. Maybe he was in the middle of killing Peter Hultz when James came by. He could have cut his throat to keep him quiet, only for James to notice anyway, so he went and attacked him.” Eiland frowns, like something’s bugging him.

Will isn’t surprised. There’s an obvious piece missing, which no one is ever going to guess. How did James Durham’s body get so damaged? Will’s never seen an animal with teeth like a demon’s; he’s not sure how they’re going to explain that one away.

Hannibal plays along with the line of thought, which is quite close to the truth, actually. “The Nkisi Nkondi Murderer gets interrupted and violently attacks the person who intruded on his ritual, and then once he’s killed him, he goes back and completes the ritual? If so, we’re dealing with a man who must be breaking from reality, given that he’s able to attack someone as wildly as he did James Durham.” Hannibal says. He doesn’t disagree with the possibility, though.

He doesn’t do a lot of disagreeing in general. He steers, he adds in small words designed to draw attention to important or misleading details, but he doesn’t outright deny the possibility of something. Nobody notices it except Will.

Eiland still looks unhappy, displeased with the missing piece he can’t find. “The only thing that doesn’t make sense is the brutal attacking of James Durham. Everything else fits: the slitting of Peter Hultz’s throat, going back to finish his ritual, leaving James Durham hanging, but not performing the same ritual on someone he doesn’t consider guilty. It’s just the cuts. Is there some kind of special weapon that can make those? Or maybe the killer really is going mad, and the interruption derailed his sanity enough to turn him into a demon.”

Will coughs back a laugh.

“You’re quite clever, Special Agent Eiland. Perhaps we should visit Ms. Katherine Karr, and find out why our killer—if he is the same killer—chose to kill on the same hunting ground as an earlier, unfound victim,” Hannibal says.

His suggestion is all it takes.

***

They don’t finish investigating for two hours, in which time no sound theories are offered up. Each one has a problem with it, something that doesn’t make sense. Interestingly enough, Eiland is always the one who finds the discrepancy.

He’s good, Will can give him that. He might be as good as he was, albeit in a different way. Where Will saw things, saw connections and little details and small personal influences which shaped up the killer, Sebastian Eiland did the opposite. He deconstructed, shook everything apart so that only the most reliable facts could hold up. Any theories he came up with stood on a strong foundation. Will can see why Jack might like that.

He can also see why Hannibal might find it intriguing, why he might be impressed with the man’s intelligence. Hannibal and Eiland had settled into a friendlier atmosphere as time went on, though the underlying tension was still there. Will isn’t entirely convinced that the tension not disappearing is a good thing. He also isn’t entirely convinced it’s a good thing that he cares so much about this.

But he does, and it’s irritating him.

They’re driving back to Hannibal’s house now, and this time the silence feels thicker than it previously had. It may be one-sided, Will’s almost entirely certain that the oppressing feeling hovering along with the silence is entirely in his imagination. He’s the one who’s bothered, after all.

It occurs to Will sometime close to the end of the drive that they spend a lot of time driving. Hannibal not having to sleep sometimes makes sense, with how often he has to travel.

When they do finally pull into his house, Will feels jittery. He’s impatient and nervous, and a just a little pissed off. He blames it entirely on too much time stuck in his own head.

He doesn’t waste much more of it with silence.

“What’s this courting thing like?” He asks, and smiles slightly when Hannibal pauses to look over at him in surprise. If he weren’t in a rush to let his own agitation out, he might wonder what Hannibal had been thinking about, that Will’s words were able to physically affect him so much. He usually had better control than that.

A moment later Hannibal has gathered himself back up, and Will pushes the stray thought from his mind.

“It’s a process that leads to partnership, where two demons become ‘mates’.” Hannibal sneers at the word. “It’s closely related to the way humans think of mated animals, though demons are, of course, capable of individual thought and control in a way that animals aren’t. It’s an outdated custom, but some find it worth the effort. The process is irreversible, Will.” Hannibal looks over at Will again. Will has to force himself to look away when his nerves get the best of him.

This all sounds very… serious. For all of the manipulation Hannibal has brought into the process it doesn’t feel like something someone can be tricked into.

“And what happens in this ‘courting’. Aside from the impressive amount of showing off you’ve managed to do.” He’s teasing, he knows exactly how important showing off hunting prowess is, especially if this is similar to animals. A good mate should be able to provide for its family, after all.

The thought makes Will feel odd.

“There are many forms of mating demons can take. Most are finalized with acceptance to the courtship and a shared killing and feasting of a soul. There are other steps that can be involved, of course.” Hannibal enters his house, now that they’ve finally reached the door. Their conversation had delayed the speed of their walking for a while.

He waits for Will to enter before shutting the door and turning to him. They’re much closer than they usually are. Will takes a hesitant step back. Hannibal allows it for a second before following him. Will has to stop when his back hits the wall and Hannibal is hovering over him, looking at him speculatively.

“Are you attracted to me, Will?” He asks, voice low. Will swallows.

“Would you like me to mate with you?”

He wants to back out of the wall, go outside where Hannibal won’t be able to follow him immediately. Not while he’s in a body, anyway. Hannibal must sense his hesitancy, because he places a stabling, anchoring hand on his shoulder.

The fact that they can actually _touch_ —in a way much nicer than the last demon he touched—sends a jolt through him that he doesn’t need.

He licks his lips without thinking, his thoughts scattering when Hannibal’s eyes drop down to his mouth.

“I don’t— I’m not really—” he cuts himself off and clears his throat awkwardly, which he belatedly realizes probably isn’t very attractive. He swallows once, and then again after that, before opening his mouth to answer—only to change his mind halfway through and move his head closer to Hannibal’s. When he finally makes up his mind and pushes his mouth against Hannibal’s, it’s too clumsy. His mouth isn’t made for kissing, it’s made for ripping people’s throats out. He switches tactics to something more compatible, and bites at Hannibal’s lower lip.

He doesn’t know the strength of his own jaw, and the second nip draws blood. He moans at the taste—it’s so much sweeter, now that he’s not human. Hannibal finally responds to him after he continues nipping lightly, pleased sounds coming out after each bite. He licks at his cut lip gently, collecting blood on his tongue before pushing forward and drawing his tongue into Will’s mouth. They both press closer at the shared taste.

Will has his eyes closed, focusing more on _acting_ than watching what’s happening. He misses the moment when Hannibal’s demon body becomes more prominent than his human flesh, when his teeth grow to be just as sharp as Will’s. When Hannibal draws Will’s tongue into his own mouth, Will isn’t expecting the bite. He jolts slightly at the pain. It’s deeper than his was, and blood collects into their mouths rapidly. He rubs up against Hannibal at the taste of it, at the shap pain that the bite provides, and lets out a whine.

When their hips touch, Hannibal pulls back, just enough that Will can’t follow his mouth. Hannibal licks at the blood on his lips appreciatively. “Is that a yes, Will?” He asks, voice rough, rumbling all the way through his chest.

Will can’t really remember what question he’s supposed to be answering yes to, but he wants more friction, he wants their bodies closer together, so he nods and swoops forward to capture Hannibal’s lips again.

Hannibal stubbornly holds him back, smiling. There’s a rivulet of blood on his lips that Will wants desperately to lick off.

“I need a yes or a no.”

Will whines.

“A yes or a no, Will,” he teases, drawing his hips forward just enough that Will can feel how equal their want is. He whines again. He can feel the answering twitch through Hannibal’s pants.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes. Please,” he adds, still not sure what he’s agreeing to, but he knows what he’ll get for his acceptance.

Hannibal smiles outright at him, and Will takes it as permission to move forward and lick at the mixture of blood that’s trailing onto Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal allows it for several seconds before he surges forward and pushes Will against the wall.

His hand reaches for Will’s jaw, forcibly pushing his chin up to reveal his neck. His other hand falls to Will’s shoulder as he bends down to nip at the exposed skin. The bites aren’t hard enough; they don’t draw blood, or even that much pain. It forces Will to stand there for as long as Hannibal wants, neck bared for him to bite down on at any time he chooses. The waiting is too much.

Will grabs at Hannibal’s hips, brings them closer so that he can feel their erections sliding against each other between clothes. Hannibal reciprocates without thought, biting down on Will’s throat automatically at the pleasure flashing in his mind.

The bite is controlled, a clear mark at the juncture of Will’s neck and shoulder. He laps at the blood that rolls down Will’s chest carefully, revels in the whimpers that Will makes from the combined force of friction, pleasure, and pain. 

He wants to bite harder, mar all of Will’s skin with clear marks, feel Will’s acceptance as he lays each bite. Will ruts faster against him, and Hannibal temporarily grants himself his fantasy, twisting to bite the opposite side of Will’s neck. They both groan.

Hannibal pulls his head back, snarling enough that Will opens his eyes. His hips don’t stop rolling, though, and Hannibal hisses out an unintelligible word under his breath.

“Stay in your own mind, Will,” he warns, hardly more intelligible than when he last spoke.

Will frowns at him, hips jerking slightly as he tries to process what Hannibal’s saying. Hannibal licks at his newly bleeding shoulder before bringing his head closer to Will’s ear.

“If you empathize with me, draw out the reaction you want, you’re going to end up very hurt,” he warns, his voice a low growl that causes Will to whimper and quicken his pace.

He tries to draw himself back, tries to stop imagining what Hannibal is feeling, what Hannibal wants to do to him. It’s hard—their thoughts are so similar he’s not sure which fantasies are his; he can’t extricate himself properly.

Hannibal draws away from him and he whines in protest again—revels in the reaction that causes.

“We’re going to the bedroom,” Hannibal announces, physically moving Will so that he’s ahead of him, his arm a guiding force that leaves Will no real choice in the matter.

Will is pushed onto the bed the moment they get inside, falling face first into the fine silk sheets. He doesn’t manage to turn himself over before Hannibal is on top of him, licking at the trails of blood alternatively from where the two bite marks haven’t stopped bleeding.

He pushes his length roughly against Will’s ass, and Will moans and pushes into it. The approving murmured words Hannibal gives him are enough to speed his way, as he bears his neck once more.

Hannibal doesn’t bite, not like Will wants him to, not like he knows Hannibal wants to, he puts his mouth around the newer of his wounds instead. The suction is almost as good, is enough to make Will buck his hips in gratitude.

Hannibal claws at Will’s pants, trying ineffectively to push them down while Will is moving so much. He growls out a warning to stop, and when Will doesn’t, he simply rips the pants open, leaving harsh marks where his nails hit skin. Tiny beads of blood form throughout the welts. The shirt he’s wearing suffers a similar fate.

Will lets out a protest when Hannibal disentangles himself from atop of him, pressing a hand against the small of his back so that they stop moving altogether. He can feel Hannibal single-handedly unbuttoning and removing his suit and pants. Will pauses long enough to feel the material of Hannibal’s clothes slide out from over top before protesting the restriction again.

Hell, he can’t even _think_ right now, can’t bring himself to form a coherent sentence.

“I’m going to lift my hand and you’re going to roll over. I want your eyes open, Will. I want to look at you,” he commands, feeling the groan Will lets out reverberate through his hand.

He doesn’t let Will up until gets the hint. “I understand, I’ll do it,” he says, and lets out a relieved sigh when he feels the hand let up against his back.

He turns himself over, does his best to follow Hannibal’s command. The instant their eyes meet, he has to force himself not to look away. Hannibal’s face is entirely unmasked, the demon showing prominently. His eyes are shining red, pupils dilated widely. Hannibal bares his teeth in an approving smile when, after several seconds, Will’s eyes don’t stray.

“Don’t close them,” he commands harshly, spreading Will’s legs with one of his own.

Will knows he isn’t going to be prepared—can’t be, really. Just like his nails are designed for shredding, Hannibal’s are similarly pointed and sharp. They’d do more harm than good.

So he prepares for the burn, knows that this is going to hurt—relishes the idea, almost. They’re still looking at each other when Hannibal begins to push in, taking in every detail of each other’s face. Will can see Hannibal’s arousal heighten almost impossibly with every flinch of pain he expresses. His eye flicker closed halfway through, when he unconsciously clenches his body from the pain, and Hannibal stops moving inside of him. He tuts disapprovingly and claws loosely at Will’s cheek.

“Open your eyes, Will. I want to see,” his voice, still thick with arousal, manages to come out as a croon, and Will hesitantly opens his eyes again.

Hannibal hums his approval, and moves down quickly to kiss Will chastely, as awkward as it is. He starts moving again, until he’s fully inside of him. He stops again to lavish Will’s neck with his tongue, moving upwards steadily until their lips are meeting again, tongues intertwining. Hannibal bites at Will’s tongue once more, drawing blood. Will readily returns the favor when Hannibal offers his own, and they both groan at the mixture of blood.

Will shifts his hips slightly, and Hannibal draws back. Will’s eyes are still open, and he nods dazedly as he looks over Hannibal’s face. Hannibal smiles at him.

He moves his hips slowly in long, slow strokes that make Will’s face scrunch up uncomfortably. He watches as the tension leaves his face, until he’s relaxed enough that he’s smiling lightly at Hannibal.

He can’t help bending down to kiss Will affectionately, and speeds up his pace. His hands move to touch Will, watching as the skin swells up from where his nails trail across his body.

Will follows his lead, moving his hands up to scratch along Hannibal’s back. He’s less coordinated, less able to control the strength with which he presses down. Hannibal can feel his skin breaking, consciously allows himself to feel the pain of skin splitting between sharp claws, and he hisses in pleasure. He moves faster, pushing himself in harshly, and Will cries out in pleasure, shifting to allow himself better access to push up against Hannibal in return.

His eyes still remain open obediently.

“Good boy, Will,” Hannibal croons, moving in closer, wanting to speak. He whispers meaningless words in his ear, loving the response each nonsense word draws from Will.

He grabs loosely at Will’s length, making sure his nails don’t come near the sensitive ghost flesh. There’s a time and place for that type of experimentation, and their first time isn’t it.

Will moans his appreciation, jerks harder into his hand and against his own member. His hands scramble with less accuracy, running against Hannibal’s sides without leaving the gashes he might have, had he been thinking.

He starts to writhe in earnest after a while, and Hannibal has to force him down to keep control.

“I want you inside me,” Will lets out, and Hannibal tries to arch an eyebrow at him. He can’t manage it, not with what he’s doing now. Will shakes his head, knowing Hannibal isn’t understanding. He can’t form the words, has to gather his thoughts to purposefully say what he means.

“I want you to come inside of me, I want to feel you do it,” He gets out, and Hannibal groans at the words, moves faster, harder inside of him. Tightens his grip on Will’s dick.

“Now! Now, please.” Will whines at him as he gets the words out, and Hannibal can’t help himself.

He moves, bites down on where he’d first bitten again, lavishes his tongue over the blood that comes out.

His hips stutter as he draws closer. Will whines at him again, jerking up roughly once, twice, and a final time before he releases into Hannibal’s hand. His hand purposefully finds Hannibal’s face, makes him look into his eyes as he climaxes in his hand. Hannibal watches dutifully, feeling his own release rush forward at the desperate, wanton look Will sends him.

Will doesn’t pause in moving once he’s finished, instead pushing backwards harder, pulling Hannibal closer to him. Will brings him close enough that he can bite into Hannibal’s shoulder, and Hannibal muffles a cry into Will’s shoulder as he’s brought over the edge.

He stays in, rocking back and forth slowly as he rides out his orgasm. Will’s licking at the bite wound he created, and when Hannibal finally manages to lift his head, Will’s smiling fondly at him.

He pulls out of Will slowly, rolling onto his back and allowing Will to draw near to him.

Neither falls asleep—Hannibal doesn’t need to, and Will can’t. They both remain silent for several minutes, listening to each other breath.

“What,” Will pauses to clear his throat, “what did I say yes to?” He asks, and Hannibal tilts his head to smile at him.

“You accepted my courtship.” Hannibal draws Will nearer to him, doesn’t allow him to drift away as he’s half-tempted to do. Will’s mind races, tries to remember when Hannibal asked him about any courtship during this whole process. He freezes in Hannibal restricting arms, but doesn’t pull away when Hannibal moves forward and lightly nibbles at his ear.

He feels good—sated, like he could sleep for hours. He isn’t in the mood to freak out about what that means. Instead, he relaxes and moves further towards Hannibal. He can feel the rumble that moves through Hannibal’s chest. His eyes are closed, but he knows that if he opened them, he’d find Hannibal smiling at him.

This isn’t so bad, really. He allows himself this one opportunity to bask in feeling good, in the way that only Hannibal can make him. He wonders if that’s part of the bonding in courtship, and pushes the question to the back of his mind.

He blows out a breath of unneeded air and opens his eyes to look up at Hannibal.

He wants to hear him speak, wants to let him drown out any stray thoughts that work their way into Will’s brain, now that he can think properly again.

He pushes away his embarrassment and leans his head away so he can look at Hannibal properly. “What were you reading about while I was unconscious?”

Hannibal takes the question for what it is and begins talking. Will was right, it was psychobabble that he doesn’t understand or really care to know. Hannibal has a nice voice, though, and he allows himself to relax for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daww, wasn’t that sweet? I wish everything in this story could be this sweet. In, you know, the bloody sex kind of way. I honestly didn’t think I had that much of a bloodplay thing. So, you know. I should move ‘cut a bitch’ up on my list of things to do, because clearly my fanfiction is telling me I’d enjoy doing it. 
> 
> Whelp. I have to go change the tags now, because _holy fuck_ I never actually expected to write this bit. Like, ‘hello, unexpected sex? Yes, I’d like you to order you for chapter ten, page 14. Yeah, thanks.’ Oh, I wish it was that easy. Mom was watching the Simpsons the whole time I was writing it, so, you know. That wasn’t awkward. At all.
> 
> Also, I finally got to show Sebastian! I'd like to mention more about him, but I can't. I'll just say that I quite like him, even though he's such a Debbie Downer. Geez, man, stop blowing Hanni's cover.
> 
> I apologize for not updating when I guesstimated I would, but! In my defense, I unexpectedly had to help frost like 7000 cupcakes today, and that took eight hours of my time. And made me sick, because I find the smell of frosting revolting. So yeah, sorry about being late! :\ Toodles~ (That's a lame word. I'm never saying toodles again. Ever.)

**Author's Note:**

> And so ends chapter one! Next chapter will be the start of Ghost!Will, so woohoo!


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